of  CLAY 

*/ 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE    GOD    OF    CLAY 


They  Brought  Back  a  Girl  Dressed  Like  Her  Father, 
in  Short  Full  Kilts 


The  God  of  Clay 


BY 

JEL  C.  BAILEY 


With  Illustrations  by 
ALEC  C.  BALL 


New  York 

BRENTANO'S 

1908 

UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


Copyright,  1907,  by  H.  C.  Bailey 
Copyright,  1908,  by  Brentano's 


First  printing  October  ijtk 
Second  printing  October  20th 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I  PAOE 

How  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS 21 

CHAPTER  II 
How  HE  CHOSE  LIFE 47 

CHAPTER  III 
How  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN 75 

CHAPTER  IV 
How  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE 106 

CHAPTER  V 
How  HE  SAW  His  STAR 138 

CHAPTER  VI 
How  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN 174 

CHAPTER  VII 
How  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN 204 

CHAPTER  VIII 
How  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM 233 

CHAPTER  IX 
How  HE  MET  A  JEW 256 

CHAPTER  X 
How  HE  FAILED  His  FORTUNE 288 

CHAPTER  XI 
How  HE  WON  His  THRONE 319 

CHAPTER  XII 
How  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA.  .  348 


2125888 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

They  Brought  Back  a  Girl  Dressed  Like  Her  Father,  in  Short 

Full  Kilts Frontispiece  299 

Bonaparte  Stumbled  Through  the  Throng,  a  Strange  Grim 

Little  Figure 58 

In  the  Doorway  Stood  the  Citizen  Representative  Salicetti . .      89 

The  Crowd  Withstood  and  Struck  Back  with  Clubs  and 

Pikes  and  Knives 133 

"Soldiers  of  France,  Forward!"  Then  They  Roared  at 
Him,  and  a  Storm  of  Tattered  Shakoes  Went  Tossing 
to  the  Sky 169 

He  Came  Forward  and  Bent  Over  Her 255 

' '  Very  Well, ' '  said  David  Stein,  and  Knocked  Him  Down 279 

' '  I  Hate  Compliments  with  Thorns, ' '  Josephine  Pouted 320 


NOTE 

The  men  and  women  of  whom  I  tell  lived  through  the 
storm  in  which  the  old  world  passed:  the  Revolution 
that  brought  France  liberty  and  the  Terror  and  Napo- 
leon. You  know  how  the  spirit  of  man,  long  cheated 
and  chained,  broke  fiercely  forth  and  swept  the  old 
tyrant  powers  away,  and  made  France  a  clean  land 
where  free  men  could  live;  how,  in  the  first  of  its 
strength,  this  new  world  force,  half  divine  and  all  hu- 
man, turned  away  from  things  as  they  are  and  gave  ear 
to  the  pretty  stories  of  sentimentalists  and  logicians, 
Marat  and  Robespierre  and  St.  Just,  till  it  was  driven 
mad  and  wrought  reasonless,  ghastly  havoc,  till  the 
glorious  vision,  a  nation  of  free  men  and  friends,  ended 
in  blood-smirched  chaos.  Then  out  of  the  chaos  men 
cried,  as  ever  men  will,  for  order  and  law,  whatever 
the  cost.  And  there  came  Napoleon — the  brain  of  a 
god  and  a  mean  man's  heart.  He  brought  them  order. 
He  wrought  Frenchmen  into  such  a  weapon  for  man- 
kind's conquest  as  the  world  had  never  known.  He 
wielded  it  with  a  greedy,  ruthless  skill  that  dazzles  and 
dazes  yet.  Never  in  any  man  else  has  dwelt  such  force 
as  his.  Of  him,  of  men  and  women  who  loved  him  some- 
times, I  write  here;  how  their  lives  crossed  and  clashed 
under  the  fool's  tyranny  of  old  France,  amid  the  rush- 
ing, murderous,  mad  pageant  of  the  Terror,  and  again, 
and  yet  again,  when  Napoleon  had  won  power  and 
glory  and  worship  and  hate  and  pity.  Will  you  say 
which  he  most  deserved? 


INTRODUCTION 

To  choose  for  the  hero  of  your  historical  novel  a 
historical  man  is  not  the  classic  way.  In  the  great 
exemplars  the  burden  and  the  heat  of  the  story  are 
borne  by  creatures  of  the  imagination,  and  it  is  only 
through  the  medium  of  their  ingeniously  adventurous 
lives  that  we  are  permitted  to  see  the  actual  men  whose 
blunders  and  whose  labours  made  the  world  we  use. 
This  may  be  the  best,  as  it  is  certainly  the  easiest 
scheme,  but  there  are  others  not  to  be  condemned  by 
lynch  law.  Catholic  critics  stand  by  the  sentence  of  a 
master  of  the  craft,  that  no  literary  form  is  in  itself 
bad  if  its  intentions  are  virtuous.  He  who  seeks  to 
make  a  man  of  history  dominant  in  a  landscape  of 
romance  is  not,  therefore,  a  blatant  sinner  against  the 
holy  covenant  of  art. 

He  does  indeed  multiply  difficulties  and  responsibili- 
ties. No  historical  novel,  as  I  conceive,  is  justified 
unless  it  is  an  honest  and  vivid  picture  of  its  period. 
A  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  may  be  very 
gorgeous,  but  is  not  sufficient  illumination.  A  romance 
in  vacua  may  be  a  very  good  thing,  but  it  is  something 
different  from  a  historical  novel.  Even  a  picture, 
however  vivid  and  however  honest,  is  not  enough.  We 
have  a  right  to  ask  that  the  spirit  of  the  time  should 
be  made  real :  that  the  yearning  passion  of  the  world's 
springtime  should  throb  again  through  a  story  of  the 
Renaissance,  that  the  stern  faith  of  the  Puritans  should 
dignify  a  tale  of  their  triumph  or  their  defeat.  But 


10  INTRODUCTION 

beyond  this  an  author  may,  if  he  chooses,  be  free  from 
the  bonds  of  fact.  He  will  be  wise,  indeed,  not  to  com- 
mit gross  outrages  upon  history.  We  could  not  toler- 
ate Cceur  de  Lion  in  the  guise  of  a  poltroon,  but  "Ivan- 
hoe"  is  not  less  a  masterpiece  for  giving  us  a  portrait 
quite  unlike  the  real,  extortionate,  Frenchified  king. 
We  should  sneer  at  the  Old  Pretender  painted  a  Puri- 
tan, but  "Esmond"  is  none  the  worse  for  a  plot  which 
makes  that  respectable  and  unfortunate  prince  behave 
in  a  way  which  would  have  filled  him  with  horror.  But 
when  a  writer  makes  an  actual  man  the  hero  of  his 
book,  he  must,  as  I  think,  cut  himself  off  from  all  these 
liberties.  The  primary  obligation  of  an  honest  pre- 
sentment of  the  material  and  spiritual  life  of  the  time 
remains:  he  adds  to  that  a  harder  task.  He  is  bound 
by  every  law  of  morality  and  of  art  to  spare  no  pains 
in  making  a  right  judgment  of  the  man  whose  joys  and 
whose  sorrows  he  presumes  to  use,  and  to  work  with 
all  his  heart  and  soul  at  telling  the  truth  so  that  the 
truth  may  live. 

But  this,  it  may  be  said,  is  the  work  of  the  historian. 
Only  in  part,  I  think.  "Imaginative  literature  has  a 
higher  truth  and  a  deeper  seriousness  than  history." 
Truth  does  not  consist  in  a  record  of  what  has  hap- 
pened. One  short  story  may  tell  more  of  a  man's  soul 
than  a  library  full  of  chronicles  of  his  deeds.  Gather- 
ing from  a  thousand  sources  of  evidence  of  a  man's 
life,  judging  him  not  with  eager  admiration,  not  with 
prejudiced  hate,  but  with  the  generosity  each  man 
would  ask  for  himself  and  the  honesty  no  man  would 
wish  to  shun,  so  it  may  be  possible  to  call  up  in  one's 
mind  something  more  like  the  real  Napoleon  than  the 
simulacrum  which  friends  and  foes  saw  dimly  through 


INTRODUCTION  1U 

the  passion  and  strife  of  the  whirling  hours.  Telling 
of  fact  where  fact  seemed  to  express  what  he  was,  shun- 
ning it  where  it  hides  the  real  man,  imagining  men  and 
women  whose  act  and  passion  cast  light  on  his  great- 
ness and  his  tragedy,  and  dropping  the  pen  when  it 
seeks  romantic  emotion  in  something  that  would  make 
Napoleon  what  he  could  never  have  been,  so  it  may  be 
possible  to  tell  as  truly  of  the  man  as  historians  have 
told  of  the  strategist  and  the  statesman.  I  have  tried 
to  do  it  in  this  book. 

It  will  be  clear  enough  that  I  make  as  little  pretence 
to  tell  only  what  happened  as  to  tell  all  that  happened. 
Those  are  the  obligations  of  the  historian  and  the 
biographer.  Mine,  as  I  conceive,  is  to  tell  what  ought 
to  have  happened.  When  the  order  of  events  threw  a 
clear  light  upon  the  real  Napoleon  I  have  been  no  more 
than  a  chronicler.  When  the  record  of  fact  would  have 
been  a  cloud  of  darkness  I  have  made  without  a  scruple 
a  chronicle  of  romance:  only  I  have  been  careful  that 
no  temptation  of  romance  should  turn  the  man  into 
something  other  than  I  found  him.  Where  precisely 
fiction  ends  and  fact  begins  I  myself  should  often  find 
it  hard  to  say.  Some  kindly  critics  who  have  viewed 
this  book  while  it  was  being  built  have  doubted  inci- 
dents for  which  there  is  invincible  evidence,  and 
accepted  with  satisfaction  others  which  never  happened 
out  of  the  beautiful  world  where  all  is  ruled  by  the 
logic  of  art.  I  am  content  if  it  be  found  that  all  work 
together  to  make  a  harmonious  drama  of  the  real  man. 

And  what  was  the  real  man?  It  is  a  question  which 
no  one  who  has  studied  him  will  answer  hastily.  Some 
popular  portraits  may  indeed  be  banished  at  once.  He 
was  as  little  the  ogre  that  English  and  French  Tories 


12  INTRODUCTION 

have  painted  as  the  god-born  liberator  of  Europe  whom 
English  Radicals  and  la  Grande  Armee  tried  hard  to 
believe  in.  That  blasphemy  against  humanity  which 
called  him  the  greatest  man  since  Jesus  Christ  is  as 
little  like  truth  as  the  supercilious  declaration  that  he 
was  a  mere  brigand. 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns; 

He  wrote  *The  Great'  before  his  name, 
And  dying  only  left  his  sons 

The  recollection  of  his  shame. 

So  says  Thackeray,  only  to  be  compelled  to  confess 
upon  another  page  the  tremendous  vitality  of  French 
faith  in  his  work.  He  was  a  tyrant,  Michelet  cries,  a 
sinister  demon  de  guerre:  and  brands  him  the  one  man 
in  Europe  who  had  the  heart  to  laugh  when  the  three 
hundred  thousand  men  of  the  Grande  Armee  found 
their  tomb  in  the  Russian  snow:  in  a  few  sentences 
more  comes  the  admission  that  the  Army  of  Waterloo 
could  see  no  fault  in  their  leader.  What  is  the  explana- 
tion? He  was  so  astute,  says  Michelet.  Is  it  credible? 
Could  any  brain  so  dupe  a  nation  for  so  long?  Again, 
the  question  is  not  to  be  hastily  answered.  The  com- 
mon standards  have  no  relation  here.  Saints  and 
martyrs  have  been  drunk  with  God  and  the  passion  of 
their  faith  still  staggers  the  imagination  of  men. 
Napoleon  was  drunk  with  self,  and  in  their  madness 
that  terrible  will,  that  mighty  machine  of  brain  might 
well  do  wild  work.  For  my  part  I  shrink  from  setting 
bounds  to  his  power  to  dupe  and  beguile  and  enchant. 
I  believe  that  he  could  impose  upon  a  nation.  For  he 
imposed  upon  himself.  "  'The  man  was  given  up  to 


INTRODUCTION  IS 

strong  delusion  that  he  should  believe  a  lie':  a  fearful 
but  most  sure  thing.  He  did  not  know  true  from  false 
now  when  he  looked  at  them — the  fearfulest  penalty 
a  man  pays  for  yielding  to  untruth  of  heart.  Self  and 
false  ambition  had  now  become  his  god:  self-deception 
once  yielded  to,  all  other  deceptions  follow  naturally 
more  and  more."  Remember  that  consecration  by  the 
Pope :  "  'wanting  nothing  to  complete  the  pomp  of  it,' 
as  Augereau  said,  'nothing  but  the  half  million  of  men 
who  had  died  to  put  an  end  to  all  that.' '  The  worst 
lie — Plato  had  foreseen  him  as  well  as  a  thousand  other 
heroes  and  philosophers  who  conceive  themselves  new — 
the  worst  lie  is  the  lie  in  the  soul. 

But  the  magnificent  charlatan,  as  Carlyle  knew  well 
enough,  is  not  the  only  Napoleon.  Most  of  the  clash- 
ing judgments,  the  passionate  devotees  and  the  vehe- 
ment foes  owe  their  birth  to  the  changing  phases  of  the 
man  and  his  work.  The  shabby  lieutenant  of  La  Fere 
had  other  ideals  than  the  brigadier  of  the  whiff  of 
grapeshot.  The  general  of  the  army  of  Italy  was  of 
finer  faith  than  the  First  Consul.  The  lover  who  was 
all  fire  in  Josephine's  feeble,  frightened  arms  was 
scarred  and  atrophied  of  soul  before  he  pounced  satur- 
nine on  that  useless  prey,  Marie  Louise.  People  make 
an  idol  or  a  bogey  of  him:  he  is  the  omnipotent  war 
god:  he  is  Prometheus  chained  upon  the  rocks  of  St. 
Helena:  he  is  the  fallen  angel  of  brute  strength:  he 
is  any  creature  of  legend  that  you  please  except  a  man 
who  followed  the  fashion  of  men  and  grew.  He  was  a 
man.  It  would  seem  childish  affectation  to  reiterate 
that  but  for  the  abundant  literature  of  those  who 
think  him  a  being  of  another  creation.  He  had  a  brain 
and  a  will  of  rare  power,  but  not  of  a  nature  different 


14  INTRODUCTION 

from  the  common  endowment  of  men.  Those  qualities 
of  mind  which  throughout  the  ages  men  have  agreed 
to  hold  in  the  highest  honour,  which  seem  like  the  work- 
ing of  the  very  spirit  of  God:  the  prophetic  vision, 
the  architectonic  thought,  the  impulse  that  spurs  man- 
kind to  new  achievement,  these  you  will  not  find  in 
Napoleon.  His  gift  to  our  inheritance  is  not  merely 
less  than  that  we  owe  to  Themistocles  or  Alexander  or 
the  great  Caius  Julius.  His  work  ranks  below  the  work 
of  smaller  men.  William  the  Silent  and  William  of 
Orange  left  more  behind  them  of  all  that  endures, 
except  glory.  In  his  own  day  Stein  built  a  nobler 
monument  of  statesmanship  than  anything  which  came 
from  the  hands  of  Napoleon.  But  the  most  interesting 
comparison  of  all,  as  I  have  tried  to  hint  (I  could 
do  no  more  in  a  novel),  is  with  Washington.  We  need 
not  argue  as  to  which  had  the  finer  endowment.  By 
their  works  they  are  known.  Both  were  men  of  a  revo- 
lution. Washington  guarded  his  country's  weakest 
hours  and  when  he  stepped  aside  left  her  strong  and 
fearless.  The  first  desperate  fight  of  the  French  Re- 
public was  won  without  Napoleon.  She  was  free,  she  had 
beaten  back  the  arms  of  all  Europe,  before  he  snatched 
the  sceptre.  He  left  her  crushed  in  helpless  defeat  to 
be  the  prey  of  the  Holy  Alliance  and  a  stupid  Bourbon 
tyranny.  The  Revolution  gave  France  heart  and  arm 
to  defy  the  world.  Napoleon  left  her  weaker  than 
centuries  of  the  old  regime.  He  came  not  to  fulfil,  but 
to  destroy.  The  work  of  the  destroyer  has  indeed  its 
claim  to  gratitude  and  honour.  He  swept  out  of 
Europe  a  host  of  horrors  born  of  the  dark  ages  of 
tyranny,  but  still  in  strength.  Where  his  eagles  came, 
the  ghastly  gods  of  persecution  and  serfdom  could  not 


INTRODUCTION  15 

live.  They  linger  yet  only  in  those  nations  which  never 
came  within  his  grip.  But  all  that  he  tried  to  build 
upon  their  ruin  crumbled  to  dust  in  an  hour.  His  name 
stands  for  no  principle,  for  no  cause  worth  a  man's 
life  or  death.  Napoleonism  is  a  legend,  not  a  system. 
It  commands  nothing  better  than  the  devotion  of  sen- 
timental souls  who  in  a  comfortable  suburb  glorify  the 
gospel  of  blood  and  iron  and  are  much  annoyed  when 
reminded  of  their  likeness  to  the  other  humourless  peo- 
ple who  make  societies  for  the  maintenance  of  true 
Jacobite  principles  and  the  honour  of  the  Stuart  line. 
Indeed,  "his  love  and  his  hatred  and  his  envy  is  now 
perished:  neither  has  he  any  more  a  portion  for  ever 
in  anything  that  is  done  under  the  sun."  Never  was 
there  such  a  grim  contrast  between  the  glory  of  life 
and  the  scanty  relics  which  the  inexorable  fires  of  death 
leave  unconsumed.  Why  is  it?  Some  people  say  with 
a  sneer  that  after  all  he  was  really  quite  a  little  man. 
Bien  loin  que  son  succes  fut  un  miracle,  le  miracle  eut 
ete  qu'avec  de  telles  circonstances  il  ne  reussit  pas. 
He  never  met  a  brain  before  Waterloo :  his  army  made 
him :  Massena  did  this  and  Augereau  did  that :  Lannes 
and  Davoust  were  as  great  as  he  and  without  Berthier 
he  was  nothing.  So  the  tales  run.  I  profess  I  cannot 
see  him  so.  Doubtless,  fortune  was  kind:  doubtless, 
he  was  well  served.  But  the  man  is  resolute  in  a  cheat- 
ing theory  who  will  not  feel  the  rare  wonder  of  that 
acute,  accurate,  ingenious  brain  and  the  terrible  force 
of  his  will.  The  utter  failure  of  all  is  the  darker  puzzle. 
The  old  Duke  of  Weimar,  they  say,  even  when  the 
thunderbolt  of  Jena  had  laid  Germany  at  the  con- 
queror's feet,  bade  his  friends  be  of  courage,  for 
Napoleon  could  not  last.  It  may  have  been  obstinate 


16  INTRODUCTION 

faith  in  the  old  order:  but  the  man  who  understood 
Goethe  and  the  man  whom  Goethe  honoured  may  have 
had  a  nobler  assurance.  There  were  eyes  perhaps  that 
could  face  undazzled  the  keenest  glare  of  the  meteor 
light  of  conquest  and  see  behind  the  steel  strength  of 
that  great  brow  a  common  man  of  mean  passions  and 
mean  ideals.  That  is  the  real  tragedy  of  Napoleon. 
He  is  the  most  awful  vision  in  all  history  of  the  ruin 
wrought  for  a  man's  self  and  all  his  world  by  the  wed- 
ding of  a  great  brain  to  an  ignoble  heart.  I  suppose 
no  one  who  likes  to  believe  in  men  ever  read  his  story 
without  searching  eagerly  for  some  gleam  of  generous 
passion,  some  kindly  breath  of  that  magnanimity 
which  makes  one  so  remote  from  our  life  as  Caesar  still 
honoured  and  loved.  And  the  quest  ends  in  disgust 
if  not  contempt.  Yet  something  there  is,  and  because 
it  is  something  which  the  historian's  canons  of  evidence 
will  hardly  admit,  the  way  of  romance  may  tell  Napo- 
leon's story  best. 

The  child  of  a  despised  and  outcast  family,  his  boy- 
hood was  a  long  torture.  At  the  Ecole  Militaire  he 
ranked  a  pauper  among  the  rich,  a  plebeian  among 
the  noblesse.  Such  a  fate  is  harsh  enough  in  the  age 
of  democracy:  it  needs  little  imagination  to  feel  the 
sordid  misery  of  it  under  the  old  regime.  That  he 
should  have  gone  out  into  the  world  with  any  high 
ideals  of  manhood  would  have  been  a  miracle.  The 
earthquake  of  Revolution  found  him  afire  with  greed 
to  subdue  all  things  unto  him  to  prove  upon  the  souls 
of  mankind  that  he  was  no  creature  for  scorn.  Is  it 
matter  for  wonder  or  blame?  Many  an  unhappy  lad 
has  felt  such  wild  passions  surge  in  him.  Napoleon 
had  the  power  to  feed  them  fat.  In  the  first  best  years 


INTRODUCTION  17 

of  his  manhood  a  nobler  vision  checked  and  swayed  his 
strength.  He  too  felt  the  power  of  that  ideal  towards 
which  the  world  works  yet:  nations  of  freemen  and 
friends.  He  too  could  hold  that  creed  of  the  divine 
right  of  every  man  to  make  the  best  of  himself.  If 
fate  had  been  kindlier  all  his  conquering  power  might 
have  been  spent  to  convert  the  world  to  that — with 
what  high  issue  we  can  only  dream.  Life  cheated  him 
and  he  was  revenged  on  life.  But  in  those  years  that 
ordered  his  nature,  the  hungry  soul  was  throbbing  with 
another  need.  He  was  always  very  man  of  very  man, 
and  in  him  most  keenly  moved  the  desire  to  weld  a 
soul  upon  his  soul.  You  find  him  writing  with  bitter 
envy  of  the  respectable  brother  who  had  the  luck  to 
find  a  modest  mediocrity  of  a  girl  in  love  with  him. 
Some  one,  we  know,  there  was  at  Valence  who  might 
have  been  as  kind.  He  was  condemned  to  love  Joseph- 
ine. It  is  idle,  perhaps,  to  let  fancy  build  another 
life  for  him.  No  one  to  whom  he  is  but  a  living  man 
with  the  yearnings  and  sorrows  of  common  men  will 
not  wish  to  linger  for  a  moment  in  thought  of  what 
might  have  been  if  Josephine  de  Beauharnais  had  been 
a  woman  worth  a  man's  love,  with  the  strength  that 
multiplies  strength,  the  passion  that  ennobles  passion, 
the  honour  that  makes  honour  bright,  and  the  love  that 
makes  men  labour  for  all  things  worthy  of  love.  .  .  . 
We  come  back  to  reality,  to  a  fair,  feeble  woman 
who  could  like  all  the  world  and  love  none.  He  puzzled 
her  sadly.  "His  violent  tenderness,"  she  complains, 
"amounts  almost  to  frenzy."  No  doubt  she  found  it 
very  disagreeable.  "I  am  far  from  you,"  he  writes,  "I 
seem  to  be  surrounded  by  the  blackest  night."  She  came 
to  his  side  all  in  tears  for  leaving  the  sweet  joys  of  Paris. 


18  INTRODUCTION 

She  failed  him  utterly.  There  is  no  need  to  spend 
zeal  in  arraigning  her.  She  gave  him  all  she  had.  But 
when  he  knew  how  little  it  was,  when  he  found  life 
cheating  him  of  its  dearest  gift,  all  the  noble  passion 
in  him  atrophied  and  the  greed  of  conquest  was  his 
sole  guide  to  the  end.  With  him,  as  with  every  man 
who  has  yielded  to  it  in  all  the  ages,  it  led  to  torment 
and  ruin  and  oblivion. 

I  have  tried  to  tell  the  story  without  worship  and 
without  hate.  What  the  just  sentence  may  be  on  a 
man  of  power  so  great,  stricken  and  distorted  by 
wounds  so  cruel,  tried  by  so  fierce  a  storm,  weaker  men, 
happier  men  cannot  easily  guess.  After  a  long  time 
that  I  have  laboured  to  see  and  know  all  the  meanings 
of  all  that  he  did,  to  feel  the  passions  that  inspired 
him  and  the  loss  and  shame  that  smote  at  his  heart, 
he  fades  from  my  sight  while  I  wonder  still  at  his 
strength,  and  wonder  is  blent  with  a  great  regret. 

H.  C.  BAJLEY, 


• 


THE    GOD    OF    CLAY 


The  God  of  Clay 

CHAPTER  I 

HOW    HE    FOUGHT    FOE    SOULS 

SOME  people  think  that  with  common  luck  he  might 
have  been  a  respectable  person.  I  like  to  draw  for 
myself  a  M.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  living  the  life  of  a 
grocer  of  repute:  an  excellent,  obedient  father  and 
husband,  drowsily  content,  the  ideal  of  matrons.  He 
•was,  as  you  know,  less  fortunate.  But  he  began  most 
respectably. 

Lieutenant  Napoleon  Bonaparte  of  the  artillery 
regiment  La  Fere  passed  his  days  in  the  observance  of 
every  duty,  and  was  naturally  beloved  of  his  brother- 
officers. 

In  the  summer  of  1788  a  half-score  of  these  good 
gentlemen  were  lounging  up  the  main  street  of  Valence, 
Lieutenant  Bonaparte — no  other  man's  uniform  was 
ever  so  dingy,  so  threadbare,  or  so  neat — came  by 
holding  a  hand  of  his  little  brother  Louis.  One  of  the 
gentlemen  stifled  a  yawn  to  bet  where  the  next  darn 
would  be  in  Lieutenant  Bonaparte's  breeches.  And 
other  like  jokes  followed.  And  the  good  gentlemen 
vibrated  with  laughter.  Louis  the  small  boy  flushed. 


22  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY/ 

But  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  had  learnt  to  be  deaf  and 
blind. 

From  the  amused  gentlemen  one,  larger,  leaner, 
fairer  than  Frenchmen  are  wont  to  be,  detached  him- 
self and  gravely  saluted  Bonaparte.  This  lonely  per* 
son  was  a  mere  guest  of  the  regiment,  an  American 
soldier.  Colonel  Vassary  is  known  as  a  friend  of  Wash- 
ington, but  he  was  always  more  human  than  that 
sounds.  He  fought  for  America  till  America  was  free. 
Then  on  an  errand  of  his  own  (whereof  if  Heaven  and 
you  so  please  you  may  some  day  hear)  he  came  to 
France.  What  matters  now  is  that  he  was  at  Valence 
in  that  pregnant  summer,  and  he  observed  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte,  this  man  who  was  Washington's 
friend. 

So  the  officers  of  the  regiment  La  Fere  gaped  upon 
Colonel  Vassary,  and  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  answered 
the  salute  and  led  his  small  boy  on.  You  see  the 
brothers  climbing  the  vineyard  hills  toward  Sirac. 

Louis  the  small  boy  matters  little.  He  was  only  a 
small  boy  all  his  life.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  makes  no 
more  than  a  small,  lean,  mean  form  topped  by  a  huge 
head.  But  for  the  head,  that  huge  neckless  head, 
you  would  scarcely  be  sure  that  you  saw  him.  The 
great  dome  of  brown  forehead,  the  jutting  bones  of 
nose  and  cheek  and  chin,  compel  gaze  and  thought; 
the  boundless  greed  and  force  of  it  all  challenge 
your  soul,  and  that  trenchant  gleam  of  grey  steel 
from  deep  beneath  the  brain  makes  you  fear  he  will 
conquer. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  sat  down  with  his  small  boy 
beside  a  vineyard  lane.  All  air  and  sky  were  lucid  in 
the  early  glory  of  a  summer  day,  and  the  full  grapes 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  23 

blushed  in  the  sun  and  the  quick  breeze  was  gay  with 
their  breath.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  brought  out  a 
tiny  worn  book,  and  Louis  the  small  boy  fidgeted. 
"I  do  not  like  this  place,  Napoleon,"  he  complained. 
"Why  do  you  always  come  to  this  place?" 

"I  hope,"  said  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  severely,  "that 
you  will  know  your  catechism  to-day." 

Louis,  fidgeting  still,  was  careful  not  to  see  his 
brother's  eyes.  "I  think,"  he  declared,  "that  you 
come  to  look  at  that  woman.  I  do  not  like  that 
woman." 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  took  the  small  boy  by  the  ear 
and  turned  him  round.  Louis  met  the  grey  glitter 
from  under  the  huge  brow,  and  shivered,  and  was  still. 
"Who  made  you?"  quoth  Lieutenant  Bonaparte;  and 
Louis  began  his  catechism  in  a  hurry. 

It  progressed  brilliantly  till  Lieutenant  Bonaparte 
was  moved  to  look  down  the  lane.  As  he  turned, 
"How  do  you  prove  that  there  is  a  Purgatory?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh!   that  is  a  very  long  one,"  Louis  grumbled. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  turning  again  in  the 
cause  of  devout  instruction  when  a  jolly  song  came 
through  the  vines: 

Robinet  et  Mariette 

Vivent  en  grande  union 

Us  s'aiment  a  la  ^ranquette 

"It  is  Jean  Dortan — my  good  Jean  Dortan!"  cried 
Louis,  and  ran  away  from  his  catechism. 

Through  the  vines  came  a  square  fellow,  his  knotted 
neck  and  arms  brown  in  the  sunlight.  "Ha!  little 
one,"  said  he,  as  he  tossed  Louis  aloft,  and  set  him  down 


24  THE  GOD  OF  CL'AYT 

again.  "Salute,  my  lieutenant !"  And  he  stood  drink- 
ing huge  draughts  of  the  air. 

"Why,  Jean,  do  you  leave  the  forge  of  morn- 
ings ?" 

"The  forge  belongs  to  me,  not  I  to  the  forge.  And 
I — I  must  have  the  sun  and  the  wind.  I  would  go 
without  bread  or  a  shirt  sooner  than  miss  the  wind 
blowing  through  sunshine." 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  considered  Jean  Dortan 
gravely  as  a  new  idea,  till  his  attention  was  withdrawn 
by  a  joyous  barking.  He  beheld  two  noble  wolfhounds 
rollicking  wildly,  and  smiled  upon  them  for  the  sake 
of  their  mistress. 

Glorious  in  the  glorious  sunlight  a  woman  was 
coming  down  the  vineyard  lane,  a  woman  beautiful  in 
strength,  with  the  form  and  gait  of  the  queen  of  life. 
There  was  the  force  of  life  in  her  deep  bosom,  in  the 
lithe  swing  of  body  and  limb.  Cream-white  against 
the  sunshine  she  moved,  a  challenge  to  the  hearts 
of  men.  Beside  her,  a  little  behind  her,  came  one  who 
made  her  a  goodly  comrade,  a  man  tall  as  she, 
with  the  easy  poise  of  power  and  a  light,  gay 
step. 

But  Jean  Dortan  was  not  gratified.  "Aristocrats !" 
he  muttered.  "Ah!  they  are  like  wasps,  they  are  like 
the  blight." 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  turned  a  little.  "A  beautiful 
blight  at  least,  Jean." 

"How  can  they  be  beautiful  when  they  are  no  use?" 
Jean  growled.  "Peste!  No.  They  are  like  their  own 
dogs.  See!"  The  two  splendid  dogs  were  plunging 
in  wanton  delight  across  and  over  the  vines,  and  work- 
ing wild  havoc. 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  25 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  looked  and  frowned.  Among 
his  passions  a  hatred  of  waste  was  ever  ready.  "She 
might  check  the  brutes,"  he  confessed. 

"She?  Bah!  she  is  as  they  are.  She  lives  only  to 
waste  what  good  men  make.  And  the  grapes  are  a 
poor  man's  all,  who  starves  that  she  may  live  fat. 
She " 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  had  ceased  to  listen.  For  the 
woman  was  close  upon  them.  He  could  see  her  quick, 
passionate  lips,  the  dark  glow  of  her  eyes.  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  started  up.  "Ah,  Mademoiselle  de  Sirac!" 
he  cried. 

Mademoiselle  de  Sirac,  who  knew  him  well — too  well 
for  the  peace  of  her  heart — declined  to  know  him. 
Something  she  had  doubtless  heard  of  the  growlings 
of  Jean  Dortan — who  was  growling  still.  She  gave 
the  smiling  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  a  proud  stare  and 
turned  to  her  companion.  "Who  is  this  person,  Denis?" 
she  inquired. 

Denis  de  Sirac,  her  companion,  sneered  at  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte.  "Some  person  of  little  breeding,"  said  he 
with  a  shrug. 

"Little!  Oh  yes,  little  every  way."  Mademoiselle 
de  Sirac  laughed  down  upon  the  small  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte,  who  amused  her  further  by  flushing.  "And 
how  long  have  the  King's  officers  been  friends  of 
peasants,  Denis?" 

"Since  they  made  peasants  into  officers  of  the  King," 
Denis  sneered. 

Mademoiselle  de  Sirac  laughed  again.  Her  dogs 
came  rushing  up,  and  one,  jumping  clumsily  at  her 
hand,  knocked  down  her  dog-whip.  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte offered  it  her  again  with  grave  politeness.  She 


26  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

drew  away.  "I  am  not  used  to  take  things  from 
peasants — or  their  friends.  You  may  remember  that, 
yes,  and  you  may  remember  me — by  my  whip." 
Laughing  in  the  pride  of  her  lovely  strength,  she  swept 
away.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  left  looking  at  her 
whip. 

"Proud?  Oh  yes,  the  devil  was  proud !"  Jean  Dortan 
muttered. 

Louis  the  small  boy  looked  curiously  at  his  brother's 
flushed  face.  "Napoleon,  that  woman  is  not  afraid  of 
you,"  he  said,  amazed. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  seized  Jean  Dortan's  bare  arm 
and  dragged  him  on  in  a  hurry.  He  caught  up 
Mademoiselle  de  Sirac;  he  passed  her.  For  a  hun- 
dred yards  he  paraded  before  her  eyes  hugging  the 
arm  of  his  peasant  friend.  And  always  he  held  her 
whip. 

On  the  next  day  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  neither  sat 
in  the  vineyards  nor  heard  the  catechism.  A  good 
gentleman  shirked  his  duty,  and  the  chance  fell  to 
Lieutenant  Bonaparte  of  taking  two  guns  out  for  exer- 
cise. Lieutenant  Bonaparte  had  the  quality — unique 
in  his  regiment — of  liking  to  work  at  his  trade.  He 
led  those  guns  forth  eagerly. 

The  cavalcade  of  the  seigneur  was  coming  through 
the  village  of  Sirac.  A  huge,  many-coloured  pageant, 
with  rangers  in  russet-brown  and  stalwart  verderers  in 
green  and  wardens  of  field  and  water,  all  grey  and  blue 
and  gold,  it  should  have  made  the  villagers  gay.  But 
they  all,  men,  women,  even  young  maids,  stood  sullen. 
It  was  they — their  rags,  their  black  bread,  their  hovels 
— that  paid  for  all  the  splendour.  They  had  lately 
understood  it.  They  had  learnt  how  to  hate. 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  27 

M.  de  Sirac,  the  old  seigneur,  laughed  at  them  and 
their  hatred.  He  loved  to  parade  his  magnificence  be- 
fore the  peasants  he  flayed. 

He  was  riding  there,  a  lean,  wiry  man,  with  the 
wrinkles  of  age  covering  his  hale,  brown  face,  between 
his  daughter  and  his  nephew  Denis,  they  three  majes- 
tic, last  of  all.  A  tiny  child,  half-naked,  darted  across 
the  village  street  under  the  horses'  bridles,  as  mad 
children  love.  It  tripped,  it  fell  flat  before  M.  de  Sirac. 
And  M.  de  Sirac  did  not  check  his  horse.  ...  A  girl 
darted  out,  and,  while  it  seemed  impossible,  caught  the 
child  from  beneath  the  hoofs.  M.  de  Sirac's  horse, 
scared  at  the  whirl  of  rag  and  limb,  reared  and  plunged 
stumbling  to  its  knees.  M.  de  Sirac  was  flung  for- 
ward, was  all  but  thrown.  M.  de  Sirac  recovered 
himself  and  his  horse  (he  could  ride — at  least  he  could 
ride),  and  turned  his  cold,  yellow  eyes  upon  the 
child's  saviour.  She  stood  now  hugging  the  child 
to  her  bosom,  and  the  mother  was  kissing  it  and 
her. 

"That  girl !"  said  M.  de  Sirac,  pointing  at  her  with 
his  whip. 

She  came  out  to  him  faltering,  trembling  under  her 
tattered  gown,  and  stood  so  while  he  bent  on  her  a 
long,  thoughtful,  torturing  gaze.  She  was  a  maid  in 
the  first  of  her  womanhood. 

"You  have  put  me  to  trouble,"  said  M.  de  Sirac. 
"I  shall  flog  you  for  that."  The  girl  drew  away  from 
him,  cowering,  wild-eyed. 

M.  de  Sirac  signed  to  two  of  his  grooms,  and  they 
dismounted  and  seized  the  girl  roughly.  She  clasped 
her  arms  across  her  bosom,  moaning.  Her  frightened 
eyes  sought  Mademoiselle  de  Sirac.  But  Mademoiselle 


28  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

de  Sirac's  lovely  face  was  cold  in  pride.  She  was  a 
woman,  but  she  was  her  father's  daughter.  She  had 
seen  the  like  of  this  from  babyhood.  She  was  a  woman, 
but  a  woman  of  the  people  was  neither  kin  nor  kind. 
Why  spare  the  whip  to  this  girl  more  than  to  horse  or 
hound?  Only  Denis  de  Sirac,  her  cousin,  moved  in  his 
saddle  and  looked  all  ways. 

The  girl's  young  limbs  were  writhing  in  the  grip  of 
the  grooms.  Then  the  child's  mother  rushed  forward 
and  cast  herself  down  before  M.  de  Sirac.  "Mon- 
seigneur,  monseigneur,  let  it  be  me — the  whip  for  me. 
She — she  is  a  maid." 

"Am  I  to  do  your  pleasure?"  said  M.  de  Sirac. 
"The  whip  for  her,  and  you  to  see  it.  Lay  on,  Joseph." 

A  whip  went  up  in  the  air,  the  mother  shrieked.  .  .  . 

Jean  Dortan,  the  blacksmith,  came  thrusting 
through  to  the  midst.  He  struck  one  groom  over  the 
heart  and  the  man  dropped,  shaking;  he  caught  the 
other  by  chin  and  scalp  and  hurled  him  away.  And 
the  girl,  free  again,  ran  like  a  frightened  hare.  But 
Jean  Dortan,  howling,  darted  at  M.  de  Sirac  and 
clipped  him  about  the  waist  and  tore  him  from  the 
saddle  and  flung  him  down.  "Wolf  of  an  aristocrat!" 
he  shouted.  "Maid-beater !  So ! — so !"  And  he  stamped 
upon  M.  de  Sirac. 

They  were  all  wrenching  their  horses  round,  they 
were  all  spurring  to  be  at  him.  Jean  Dortan  gave 
a  wordless  yell  and  darted  off  down  the  road  to 
Valence.  Rangers,  verderers,  grooms,  they  jostled 
and  baulked  each  other  in  their  haste  to  be  after 
him. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  coming  with  his  two  guns 
up  the  road.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  saw  Jean  Dortan 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  29 

flying  for  his  life  from  a  mob  of  M.  de  Sirac's  men; 
saw  also  in  the  one  flash  of  those  grey  eyes  that  there 
were  vineyards  on  either  side  the  road  in  which  no 
horse  could  move.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  then  discov- 
ered that  the  needs  of  military  training  bade  him  have 
one  gun  turned  to  the  right-about.  The  road  was  nar- 
row, the  gun  and  its  limber  long.  The  road  was  barred 
to  its  ultimate  inch.  Jean  Dortan,  indeed,  bending 
low,  wriggled  through  under  the  limber.  But  the 
horsemen  all  were  stayed.  They  halted  in  constrained 
hurry,  charging  each  other,  angry,  blaspheming.  And 
the  artillerymen,  attending  carefully  to  the  flood  of 
instruction  which  flowed  from  Lieutenant  Bonaparte's 
lips,  handled  their  gun  with  extreme  patience.  And 
all  the  while  Jean  Dortan  was  speeding  away  to  Val- 
ence. When  the  gun  was  near  round  and  the  horse- 
men thrust  forward  to  break  past,  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte rode  back  and  gave  his  whole  mind  to  turning  the 
second  gun.  A  blue  heaven  smiled  down  upon  the  hu- 
mour of  things. 

So  it  happened  that  Jean  Dortan  had  many  hundred 
yards'  law  by  the  time  the  horsemen  were  after  him 
again,  and  M.  de  Sirac  with  his  daughter  and  his 
nephew  thundering  up  to  Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  irate. 
M.  de  Sirac  desired  to  know  many  things,  but  chiefly 
why  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  must  needs  turn  his  accursed 
guns — which  he  bade  remove  themselves  forthwith  and 
for  ever  from  the  seigneury  of  Sirac. 

"I  think,"  said  Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  "that  you  are 
interfering  with  a  King's  officer  in  his  duty.  The 
punishment  for  that  is  the  wheel." 

"Do  you  threaten  me,  sir?"  cried  M.  de  Sirac.  "I 
will  have  you  broke.  I  will  have  you  in  the  galleys. 


50  THE  GOD  OP  CLAY] 

The  villain  trod  upon  me!  He  walked  upon  me!  And 
you " 

"I  expect  that  you  found  him  heavy,"  said  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte,  with  polite  interest. 

"Heavy!"  gasped  the  injured  M.  de  Sirac. 

But  his  daughter  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "The 
fellow  jeers  at  you,  sir,"  she  said.  "Come!"  Her  eyes 
were  flaming  upon  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  in  the  bitter 
anger  of  fear.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  first  of  men  had 
dared  dispute  her  will — had  dared,  perhaps,  to  conquer. 
The  pride  of  her  birth,  the  pride  of  her  maidenhood, 
felt  the  alarm.  ...  So  they  too  galloped  after  Jean 
Dortan.  And  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  continued  his 
military  exercises  with  satisfaction. 

Spite  of  the  ground  won  for  him,  spite  of  his 
strength,  Jean  Dortan  was  hard  pressed  ere  he  came 
to  the  outskirts  of  Valence  and  the  barracks  and  the 
inn  beside.  He  turned  like  a  hunted  beast  to  find  some 
hiding  hole.  Then  Colonel  Vassary,  washing  his  hands 
in  his  bedroom  at  the  Green  Boar  inn,  is  surprised  by 
the  arrival  of  a  square  man  who  reeks  of  sweat,  whose 
chest  and  flanks  toss  like  the  sea,  who  sobs  out,  "Hide 
me! — hide  me!" 

Colonel  Vassary  was  never  too  much  surprised  to  act 
adequately.  He  thrust  Jean  Dortan  into  a  chest  and 
locked  him  in;  then  flung  open  the  back  window  and 
leant  half  out  of  it,  shouting.  His  ingenious  energy 
was  not  superfluous.  A  moment  after  a  pair  of  M.  de 
Sirac's  rangers  burst  in.  Colonel  Vassary  turned  at 
the  sound  of  them.  "What,  more  ?"  he  inquired.  "Will 
you  go  out  of  the  window,  too?" 

"Is  that  where  the  rascal  went?"  they  cried,  and 
rushed  across  the  room  and  scrambled  out. 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  31 

"Yes,  there,  across  the  courtyard" — Colonel  Vassary 
was  quite  agitated — "round  by  the  far  stable.  Who 
is  he?" 

But  the  good  men  were  gone.  Colonel  Vassary 
turned  from  the  window  and  with  swift  skill  pierced 
holes  in  the  back  of  the  chest.  A  sneeze  rewarded  him. 
Then — his  swiftness  had  been  only  swift  enough — a 
procession  of  Sirac's  men  poured  into  the  room,  and  to 
all  of  them  Colonel  Vassary  was  affable  and  informing. 
When  he  had  been  long  rid  of  them,  when  he  felt  quite 
safe,  he  locked  the  door  and  unlocked  the  chest  and 
gave  Jean  Dortan  water  and  asked  for  his  story.  He 
listened  to  the  end  without  a  word ;  then,  "Things  will 
happen  to  this  country,"  he  said.  "But  there  are  men 
in  it,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

In  the  night  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  waked  by  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  Jean  Dortan's  voice  spoke  out 
of  the  darkness.  "Salute,  my  lieutenant!  I  come  to 
thank  you.  He  does  not  forget,  this  little  Jean  Dor- 
tan.  And  now  I  go  to  Paris.  Things  move  there, 
they  say."  With  that  Jean  Dortan  vanished  from 
Valence  to  make  one  more  man  in  Paris  bent  on  revo- 
lution. 

On  the  next  afternoon  Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  pro- 
ceeding to  dine  with  his  brother-officers  at  the  Green 
Boar,  was  intercepted  by  Colonel  Vassary.  "You  know 
how  to  handle  guns,  sir,"  quoth  Colonel  Vassary,  and 
made  the  military  salute.  "And  that  is  why  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  come  to  dinner.  M.  de  Sirac  and 
his  nephew  are  there,  and  the  old  man  looks  murder 
more  than  I  thought  a  white  man  could." 

"And  you  suggest  that  I  should  be  a  coward?"  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte  inquired. 


32  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY. 

Colonel  Vassary  declined  with  a  shrug  to  suggest 
anything. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  proceeded  to  dine.  In  the 
anteroom  he  met  none  of  the  rough  subalterns'  gibes  to 
which  he  was  used.  From  all  came  the  frigid  civility  of 
M.  de  Sirac — of  M.  de  Sirac,  who  stood  lean  and  grim 
with  yellow  eyes  that  glittered  and  flickered  as  they 
looked  at  Lieutenant  Bonaparte.  The  tale  of  the  turn- 
ing of  the  guns  had  gone  abroad.  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte had  dared  insult  the  seigneur.  From  the  seigneur 
the  officers  of  the  regiment  La  Fere  took  their  tone. 
Now  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  not  even  comrade 
enough  for  a  jeer,  was  alien,  outcast,  enemy.  All  stood 
aloof.  And  yet  of  all  the  company  only  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  himself  was  wholly  at  ease.  Least  comfort- 
able was  Denis  de  Sirac,  who  could  not  keep  still,  who 
spoke  nervously  to  this  man  and  that  and  never  waited 
for  an  answer. 

At  table  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  set  opposite  M. 
de  Sirac,  with  Denis  on  his  right  hand.  He  saw  M.  de 
Sirac's  yellow  eyes  look  at  him  with  hate.  He  spoke 
to  Denis,  and  had  no  answer ;  he  spoke  amiably  again, 
and  won  an  insolent  rebuff.  Then  he  caught  M.  de 
Sirac  smiling  approval  on  Denis.  He  could  not  miss 
the  truth.  Denis  had  been  brought  there  to  fight  him. 
He  continued  to  be  most  polite  to  Denis. 

The  dinner  was  done.  The  wine  had  gone  round  and 
round.  M.  de  Sirac's  fingers  were  tapping  impatiently 
on  the  table.  Denis  turned  in  his  chair  and  glared 
at  Lieutenant  Bonaparte.  "There  is  a  curst  Cor- 
sican  flavour  in  the  air,"  he  snarled.  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte sipped  his  wine.  "I  said  Corsican,  sir,"  cried 
Denis. 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  33 

"Sir,  you  could  not  pay  me  or  the  air  a  better  com- 
pliment," quoth  Lieutenant  Bonaparte. 

"Oh !  I  suppose  it  would  be  a  compliment  to  call  you 
rascal?" 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  yawned.  "A  compliment  that 
I  answer  with  a  pistol." 

"Then  have  with  you,"  cried  Denis,  starting  up. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  sat  sipping  his  wine. 

A  pair  of  pistols  were  swiftly  produced,  two  seconds 
as  swiftly.  There  was  glee  among  the  officers  of  the 
regiment  La  Fere.  "At  arm's  length?"  one  asked. 

"As  near  as  the  gentleman  wills,"  said  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  rising.  "But  I  should  like  to  know  whether 
he  fights  for  the  right  to  ride  over  babies  or  for  the 
right  to  flog  maids?" 

Denis  was  heard  to  mutter  an  oath.  He  bit  his  lip 
and  looked  uneasily  at  Lieutenant  Bonaparte.  Then 
he  came  forward,  and,  pistol  in  hand  at  arm's  length, 
the  two  stood  against  each  other,  and  Bonaparte's 
dingy,  small,  mean  form  against  Denis's  splendid 
strength.  The  candles  were  shifted  till  the  light  fell 
fairly  across  them.  Behind,  the  officers  of  the  regiment 
La  Fere  made  a  half-circle,  with  the  joyful  face  of 
M.  de  Sirac  in  the  midst. 

"Fire !"  The  word  rang  out,  and  on  the  word  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte  fired.  .  .  .  But  his  pistol  flashed  in 
the  pan,  and  he  was  left  unarmed,  helpless,  for  Denis 
to  kill.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  let  the  useless  pistol 
fall.  .  .  .  Denis's  loaded  barrel  made  a  circle  over  his 
heart.  .  .  .  Bonaparte,  the  little  man,  stood  quite  still. 
Light  fell  upon  the  warrior  power  of  his  face,  the  large, 
dominant  lines  of  nose  and  chin  and  jaw,  the  great 
dome  of  forehead.  From  beneath  that  the  fierce  gleam 


34  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

of  his  steel  eyes  clove  up  at  Denis  de  Sirac.  .  .  . 
Denis's  hand  wavered.  His  pistol  moved  unsteadily 
along  Bonaparte's  breast.  .  .  .  Bonaparte  was  fight- 
ing, not  for  life,  but  for  a  man's  soul.  .  .  .  He  stood 
still,  breathing  calm  and  quiet  as  a  child,  and  Denis 
de  Sirac  trembled,  with  a  cold  sweat  upon  him,  and  in 
the  stillness  before  the  eyes  of  blind  men  their  souls 
did  battle. 

"I  cannot! — I  cannot!"  Denis  flung  his  pistol  clat- 
tering away.  "Ah,  God,  you  are  a  braver  man  than  I !" 
He  bowed  himself  and  fell  into  a  chair  and  hid  his 
face.  .  .  . 

The  soul  of  Denis  confessed  defeat.  Bonaparte  was 
ready  to  make  defeat  easy.  He  put  his  hand  on  Denis's 
shoulder.  "Sir,  only  a  brave  man  would  dare  say 
that." 

Then  from  M.  de  Sirac  came  a  gasping  cry,  "By 
heaven,  the  boy  is  mad!"  And  one  of  the  wise  officers 
called  out,  "Coward! — coward!" 

"Ah!"  Bonaparte  swung  round.  "Will  the  gentle- 
man who  said  that  stand  before  me  as  I  stood  before 
my  friend?  .  .  .  No?  .  .  .  Then  he  will  not  presume 
to  be  critic  of  us." 

There  was  uneasy  bustle  and  muttering.  Then  one 
of  the  wise  officers  came  up  to  congratulate  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte,  and  another,  and  another,  and  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  received  them  with  the  smile  of  understand- 
ing. The  while  Colonel  Vassary  watched  him  through 
thoughtful,  dispassionate  eyes.  He  was  wondering,  he 
records,  whether  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  knew  what 
powers  there  were  in  the  world  greater  than  him- 
self. 

M.  de  Sirac,  a  deserted  god,  stalked  away  to  the 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  35 

door;  and  Denis,  after  a  grip  of  Bonaparte's  hand, 
followed  slowly.  Outside  by  their  horses,  "Shall  I  come 
back  to  the  chateau,  sir?"  said  Denis,  in  humility. 

Through  the  dark,  M.  de  Sirac  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  of  hate.  "Since  you  are  mad,  you  are  better  at 
home,"  he  said. 

In  the  hall  of  the  chateau  Mademoiselle  de  Sirac  was 
waiting  to  meet  them.  She  ran  forward  to  Denis  and 
caught  his  hands  and  drew  him  into  the  light.  "Ah, 
you — you  are  not  hurt!"  she  cried.  "Then — then  it 

is And  her  voice  fell  low  and  failed,  and  she  sped 

back  into  the  shadow,  her  hand  at  her  side. 

M.  de  Sirac  peered  at  his  daughter.  "Be  easy, 
Diane.  No  one  is  hurt.  Denis  has  devised  a  new  kind 
of  duel  which  is  very  safe.  He  will  tell  you."  Diane 
de  Sirac  stood  erect  and  still,  a  noble  woman's  form  all 
golden,  and  her  neck  was  white  through  the  gloom. 
M.  de  Sirac  disposed  himself  easily  in  a  chair.  "Come, 
Denis,  tell  your  lady  how  you  fought  for  her." 

Denis  hung  his  head  and  shuffled  his  feet  and  plucked 
at  his  whip.  In  stammered,  awkward  sentences  he  made 
out  his  tale.  .  .  .  "He  stood  so  still — so  quiet — no  fear 
at  all.  And  the  eyes — those  eyes — they  cut  through 
me.  He — he  saw  my  soul  naked.  I  was  shamed.  I — 
I — ah !  I  could  as  easily  have  shot  at  God !" 

"Oh!  God  is  flattered,"  said  M.  de  Sirac.  "And 
Diane  doubtless  is  proud  of  you." 

Denis  turned  slowly  to  Diane  in  mute  appeal — drew 
nearer,  holding  out  his  hands.  "No ! — no !"  She 
shrank  away  shuddering.  Then,  "Ah !  why  must  you 
let  him  conquer  you?"  she  cried  in  a  very  pitiful  voice. 
"I  loved  you ! — indeed,  indeed,  I  loved  you !  Could  you 
not  be  strong  against  him?" 


36  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Diane!'*  cried  Denis  wildly,  snatching  at  her  hand. 

She  wrenched  it  away  and  started  back  from  him. 
"Never ! — never !"  she  cried,  and  for  a  moment  loathing 
possessed  her  face.  Then  it  was  pitiful  again.  "Ah! 
Denis,  indeed  I  cannot.  I — I  would  like  to  love  you 

still,  but — but "  Her  throat  was  shaking  and  her 

voice  failed.  "It  is  true,  it  is  most  true,  I  loved  you. 
Indeed  I  want  to  love  you  now.  But  you — you  failed. 
And  I  cannot! — I  cannot!"  And  then  her  voice  rose 
to  a  wail.  "Ah!  our  Lady,  why,  why  must  he  con- 
quer?" ...  She  sank  down  sobbing.  .  .  .  With  red, 
tearful  face  and  disordered  hair  she  looked  up  a 
moment  at  the  two  men.  "Go,  I  pray  you ! — go !"  she 
cried.  .  .  . 

Denis  turned  away  groaning,  and  M.  de  Sirac  fol- 
lowed him  down  the  hall  and  patted  his  shoulder.  "You 
are  being  rewarded,  Denis,"  he  said. 

Diane,  alone  in  the  hall,  moaned  with  hands  knit 
together  and  wild  bosom:  "O  Mary  Mother,  Mother 
of  God,  can  no  one  hold  out  against  him  ?  I  must  hate 
him — indeed,  indeed,  I  must  hate  him.  Mary  Mother, 
give  me  strength!" 

At  that  hour  in  his  lodging  over  against  the  book- 
seller's in  Valence  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  handled  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Sirac's  whip  and  smiled  at  it. 

There  came  a  week  of  such  happiness  as  you  may 
fancy  at  the  Chateau  de  Sirac.  Diane  held  by  herself 
in  proud  loneliness,  and  Denis's  misery  was  made  more 
bitter  by  the  geniality  of  M.  de  Sirac.  M.  de  Sirac's 
geniality  indeed  was  large  and  ominous. 

On  a  forenoon  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was  crossing 
the  barrack  yard  when  he  beheld  four  of  the  King's 
apparitors  at  the  gate.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  was 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  37 

interested.  A  King's  apparitor,  bearer  of  the  lettre 
de  cachet  that  consigned  a  man  to  the  Bastille  and  a 
life  of  death,  was  a  new  thing  in  Valence.  The  chief 
of  the  posse  asked  for  the  officer  of  the  day.  A  ser- 
geant led  him  on.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  lounged  after 
him.  The  officer  of  the  day  was  found.  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte,  passing  by  in  slow  time,  heard  the  appari- 
tor speak  the  word  "Sirac."  Lieutenant  Bonaparte 
understood.  M.  de  Sirac  had  arranged  to  reward 
the  undutiful  Denis  with  the  Bastille.  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  turned  the  corner  and  passed  from  slow 
time  to  speed.  He  sought  the  Green  Boar  and  Colonel 
.Vassary. 

Into  that  gentleman's  presence  he  broke  violently. 
"My  colonel,  you  do  not  love  tyrants !"  he  cried.  There 
was  always  something  of  the  stage  about  him.  "My 
colonel,  you  do  not  love  tyrants!"  (And  Colonel  Vas- 
sary  opened  mild  eyes  of  amazement.)  "You  are  the 
friend  of  free  men !  Help  a  free  man  in  danger !  There 
are  those  here  with  a  lettre  de  cachet  for  Denis  de 
Sirac.  Go  to  Sirac  hastily.  Get  him  into  hiding.  In 
the  sacred  name  of  freedom,  my  colonel !" 

Colonel  Vassary  still  displayed  amazement.  He 
could  not  understand  how  a  man  of  capacity  could 
demean  himself  to  use  rhetoric.  But  he  never  refused 
a  good  cause  that  needed  him.  And  he  began  to  pull 
on  his  boots.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  with  dramatic 
gesture  held  out  both  his  hands  in  thanks,  then  turned 
and  sought  the  barracks  again.  He  found  an  alterca- 
tion prosperous. 

The  apparitor  and  the  officer  of  the  day  were  crim- 
son. Lieutenant  Bonaparte  lounged  up  with  disinter- 
ested air.  "What  is  the  distress,  Amadee?"  he  inquired 


38  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

of  his  comrade,  innocently.  He  was  informed  by  both, 
eager,  discordant.  The  apparitor  had  desired  an 
escort  for  himself  across  the  seigneury  of  Sirac.  The 
officer  of  the  day  had  protested  that  he  knew  not  where 
to  find  another  officer  (that  was  the  way  of  the  regi- 
ment La  Fere).  Hence  recriminations  and  duplicated 
oaths. 

But  the  apparitor  looked  at  Lieutenant  Bonaparte 
with  greedy  eyes.  "Here  is  an  officer,"  said  he.  "Gen- 
tlemen, I  demand  escort  of  the  regiment  La  Fere  in 
the  name  of  the  King.  Or  I  will  go  away  and  complain 
at  Grenoble." 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "A 
bore,"  said  he.  "Where  are  we  going,  my  friend?" 

"We  are  going,"  said  the  apparitor  with  profes- 
sional secrecy,  "across  the  seigneury  of  Sirac." 

So  you  may  conceive  Lieutenant  Bonaparte — after 
such  delay  as  would  suffice  for  Colonel  Vassary  to  do 
his  part — mounting  twenty  of  his  men  on  their  gun- 
horses  and  riding  forth  to  make  escort  for  the  King's 
apparitors — to  the  chief  of  whom  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte was  most  affable.  And  affable  so  skilfully  that 
after  a  while  the  good  man  explained  what  he  wanted. 
"We  are  going,"  said  he,  "to  the  chateau  of  Sirac. 
Your  men  will  surround  the  chateau  so  that  no  one 
can  get  out  or  in.  Then,  if  he  is  in,  we  shall  have  him 
before  he  can  get  out.  If  he  is  out,  we  shall  have  him 
as  he  tries  to  get  in." 

"It  would  indeed  seem  so,"  said  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  him?"  the  apparitor  ques- 
tioned. 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  as  was  natural,  looked  doubt- 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  39 

ful.  The  apparitor  took  from  his  bosom  a  leather  case, 
and  from  that  the  heavily  sealed  lettre  de  cachet. 
Lieutenant  Bonaparte  took  it,  read  it,  and  was  at  once 
filled  with  pure  and  simple  joy. 

The  letter  announced  merely  that  Denis-Etienne- 
Pharamond-Anne-Marie-Sirac  de  Sirac  would  be  con- 
fined during  the  King's  pleasure  in  the  Bastille  of 
Paris.  Denis-Etienne-Pharamond-Anne-Marie-Sirac :  it 
was  the  name  of  Denis,  and  for  him  doubtless  it  was 
meant.  But  it  was  also  the  name  of  his  uncle,  of 
M.  de  Sirac.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  admired  the  man- 
ners of  Providence. 

"Well,"  the  apparitor  insisted,  "do  you  know 
him?" 

"But  it  is  M.  de  Sirac,  it  is  the  seigneur,"  said  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte  with  proper  surprise.  "You  cannot 
mean  to  arrest  the  seigneur." 

The  apparitor  grinned.  "Only  show  him  to  me,  this 
seigneur — I  will  arrest  him." 

"But  you  pain  me,"  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  pro- 
tested ;  "you  distress  me.  I  would  much  rather  go 
away." 

"I  command  your  assistance  in  the  King's  name," 
cried  the  apparitor.  Then  he  smiled.  "Bah!  we  will 
see  him,  this  seigneur." 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  thanked  a  gracious  Heaven 
for  fools. 

To  sight  of  the  chateau  of  Sirac,  a  grey  house  above 
the  chestnut  woods,  they  came  soon.  Lieutenant  Bona- 
parte set  his  men  in  a  circling  chain  all  round  it,  then 
with  the  apparitors  rode  on.  M.  de  Sirac  was  walking 
on  the  terrace.  He  saw  the  fleurs  de  lys  of  the  appari- 
tors' coats,  and  smiled.  "And  that  fool  Denis,"  said 


40  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

he,  "is  gone  riding  with  the  [American.  He  never  is 
where  he  is  wanted."  Then  louder  to  the  apparitors, 
"Come,  gentlemen,  you  are  very  welcome." 

The  chief  of  the  apparitors  walked  his  horse  on  to 
the  terrace.  "Denis-Etienne-Pharamond-Anne-Marie- 
Sirac  de  Sirac?"  he  said  severely. 

"Well,  sir?"  quoth  M.  de  Sirac  in  disdainful  surprise. 

"I  claim  you  in  the  name  of  the  King."  The  appari- 
tor held  out  the  much-sealed  lettre  de  cachet. 

"Fool!"  cried  M.  de  Sirac.  "This  is  not  meant 
for  me." 

"I  have  heard  five-and-forty  men  say  that,"  quoth 
the  apparitor. 

"It  is  meant  for  another.     It — — " 

"I  have  heard  six-and-forty  men  say  that,"  quoth 
the  apparitor. 

"Fool!  It  is  for  my  nephew  Denis.  I  wrote  to 
Polignac  for  a  lettre  de  cachet  for  him,  and " 

"M.  de  Polignac  sends  one  for  you." 

M.  de  Sirac  gave  loose  to  the  tongue  of  blasphemy. 

The  apparitor  endured  for  a  little.  Then,  "I  will 
use  force  if  you  wish,"  said  he  genially,  and  his  men 
closed  about  M.  de  Sirac.  M.  de  Sirac  howled  for  his 
servants,  and  a  host  came  running.  The  apparitor 
held  up  his  right  hand.  "I  am  the  King's  apparitor," 
he  cried.  "In  the  King's  name,  let  no  man  hinder  me. 
On  peril  of  the  wheel!" 

M.  de  Sirac's  servants  held  off  in  a  muttering  crowd 
while  their  master  struggled.  "But  if  it  were  M. 
Denis,"  said  one,  "I  would  strike  a  blow  and  a  half 
for  him."  M.  de  Sirac  heard,  and  became  livid  and 
foamed.  So  wild  was  his  anger  that  he  saw  nothing 
of  Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  who  sat  his  horse  tranquilly 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  41 

behind  a  yew-tree  enjoying  the  scene.  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  regretted  only  that  Mademoiselle  de  Sirac 
was  not  there  to  enjoy  it  also. 

So  M.  de  Sirac,  shrieking  with  passion,  was  bound 
behind  an  apparitor  and  borne  away.  Lieutenant 
Bonaparte  remained  discreetly  in  his  rear,  and  escorted 
the  party  till  they  were  beyond  the  bounds  of  the 
seigneury.  He  saw  them  fairly  on  the  road  to  Paris, 
and  then  came  back  to  announce  with  proper  amaze- 
ment to  the  amazed  barracks  that  the  apparitors  had 
taken  M.  de  Sirac  to  the  Bastille. 

After  dinner  in  the  dusk  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  sat 
in  his  lodging  teaching  Louis  the  small  boy  problems 
of  geometry.  His  landlady  announced  Colonel  Vas- 
sary.  "Louis,"  said  Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  "go  to 
bed."  And  the  small  boy,  preferring  bed  to  geometry, 
went  lightly. 

Colonel  Vassary  came  in  in  his  cloak,  and  behind 
him  another  man,  at  whom,  as  the  light  fell  on  his  face 
and  revealed  Denis  de  Sirac,  Lieutenant  Bonaparte 
leapt.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  embraced  him  ardently. 
"My  friend!"  he  cried — "my  friend!"  It  was  purely 
of  the  stage.  Colonel  Vassary  blew  his  nose.  "My 
friend!"  cried  Lieutenant  Bonaparte,  standing  on  tip- 
toe to  hug  the  larger  man — "my  friend !" 

It  was  plainly  Denis's  cue  to  cry,  "My  saviour !"  He 
did  not.  He  flushed  and  stammered. 

"Do  not  thank  me,"  cried  Lieutenant  Bonaparte. 

"No,"  said  Denis  awkwardly.  .  .  .  "And  now — and 
now  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"He  would  come  to  you  and  ask  that,"  Colonel  Vas- 
sary explained.  His  tone  conveyed  no  admiration  of 
a  man  who  asked  another  what  to  do. 


42  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"The  old  life  is  gone,"  said  Denis  sadly.  "And  now 
— and  now " 

The  landlady  had  appeared  timidly  and  beckoned  to 
Lieutenant  Bonaparte.  She  whispered,  "Sir,  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Sirac." 

Colonel  Vassary,  observant,  saw  break  upon  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte's  face  the  cruel  smile  of  combatant 
greed.  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  turned  swiftly  and  hus- 
tled Denis  and  Colonel  Vassary  behind  the  curtain  that 
hid  his  bed.  "Let  the  lady  come,"  he  said. 

Diane  de  Sirac  stood  before  Lieutenant  Bonaparte, 
royal  in  the  power  of  her  beauty.  "Mademoiselle," 
said  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  with  a  mocking  bow,  "you 
are  flattering,  but  less  than  discreet." 

Her  passionate  dark  eyes  flamed.  "I  need  no  sub- 
altern's wit,  sir.  Tell  me.  You  were  at  Sirac  to-day? 
It  was  you  arrested  my  father?" 

"No,  mademoiselle.  I  had  only  the  pleasure  of 
beholding  that  joyous  work." 

Her  deep  bosom  rose  tremulous  in  wrath.  "Do  not 
dare  He,"  she  cried.  "You  know  that  it  was  your 
deed.  You  knew  well  that  the  fools  should  have  taken 
my  cousin.  It  was  you — it  was  you  who  cheated 
them." 

Lieutenant  Bonaparte  sat  down  and  laughed.  "You 
surprise  me,  mademoiselle,  by  telling  the  truth.  In 
fact,  M.  de  Sirac  has  deserved  the  Bastille  so  much  more 
than  his  nephew,  that  I  arranged  to  give  it  him." 

Diane  de  Sirac  laughed  too.  She  drew  herself  up, 
tall  and  strong  in  her  loveliness,  above  the  little  Lieu- 
tenant Bonaparte.  "That  is  enough,  sir.  That  is 
all  I  need.  Now  I  go  to  your  commandant.  I  tell  him 
that  Lieutenant  Bonaparte  confesses  he  arrested  my 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  43 

father  with  no  warrant — confesses  he  has  made  a  mock 
of  the  King's  justice." 

Diane  whirled  away.  Bonaparte  leapt  before  her, 
leapt  at  the  door.  He  turned  the  key  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  Then  he  smiled  at  her. 

Her  face  grew  dark.     "Do  you  dare?"  she  gasped. 

"Do  you  know  me  so  little  as  to  ask  what  I  dare? 
See,  it  is  night,  it  grows  late,  you  are  alone  in  my 
room  with  me.  Raise  a  din,  then,  if  you  will.  Have 
your  name  linked  with  mine  in  the  foul  mouths  of  all 
Valence."  She  shrank  away  from  him,  the  vivid  grace 
of  her  beauty  bent  and  cowering.  "Ah!  does  the 
thought  please  you  so  much,  Diane?  Do  you  choose 
shame  with  me?" 

She  shuddered,  and  her  breath  came  shrill.  There 
was  the  glistening  line  of  tears  on  her  dark  cheeks.  "It 
is  base  in  you,"  she  moaned.  "Ah,  coward! — coward!" 

"I  fight  for  my  friend,"  said  Bonaparte  coldly. 
"When  your  father  is  come  to  Paris,  he  can  get  a 
word  to  Polignac's  ear  and  win  his  freedom  easily. 
But  then  Denis  will  be  far  away,  and  safe.  Till  then 
I  intend  that  fool  tyrant,  your  father,  to  taste  a  little 
of  what  you  and  he  deserve."  Then  the  steel  eyes 
flashed  at  her.  "Coward,  am  I?  Base?  What  is 
the  word  for  you,  then?  You,  the  woman  that  would 
please  yourself  with  flogging  a  brave  maid,  that 
yearned  for  a  sister's  agony — you,  the  woman  that 
hunted  him  who  saved  her — you,  the  woman  that  would 
have  your  cousin  murder  me,  and  fling  him  to  a  living 
death  because  he  was  not  vile  enough  to  serve  you — you, 
a  woman  lusting  for  all  things  foul!  O  God,  save  all 
men  from  such  women  as  you !" 

One  moment,  trembling,  quivering,  she  gazed  at  him. 


44  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

then  cast  herself  into  a  chair,  and  hid  her  face.  "No ! — 
no !"  she  moaned  piteously.  "Ah,  you  hurt  me  so !" 

"I  did  not  know  that  Diane  de  Sirac  would  deign  to 
be  hurt  by  me." 

"Deign?  Oh!  I  pray  you,  I  pray  you!"  She 
fell  to  her  knees  and  clasped  his  hands  close  between 
hers.  "Yes!  I — I  have  been  proud  to  you.  Ah!  am 
I  not  humble  now?"  Her  noble,  eager  face  was  wrought 
with  pain  and  shame.  Bonaparte  looked  down  at  her 
with  cold,  curious  eyes.  She  gave  a  miserable  laugh. 
"Indeed,  do  you  not  see  why  you  hurt  me  so  much? 
I — I — how  can  I  bear  you  to  scorn  me  ?  .  .  *  And  then 
you  talked  of  shaming  me  .  .  .  Ah!  have  you  not 
guessed?  .  .  .  You  have  fought  with  me  as  long  .  .  . 
Yes!  Yes!  You  conquer.  I — I  am  for  you."  Her 
dark  eyes  glowed  through  their  tears,  she  drew  his 
hands  to  her  lips,  all  her  vivid  loveliness  cried  to 
him. 

Bonaparte's  hard  face  changed  no  whit.  "You  speak 
of  love,  mademoiselle?  I  cannot  hear.  You  are 
loved  by  my  friend.  Denis" — he  raised  his  voice — 
"Denis !" 

Diane  started  up,  her  hand  to  her  side.  And  Denis 
came,  Denis  grave  and  pale. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Bonaparte,  "I  pray  you  for 
your  cousin  who  has  loved  you  long,  who  loves  you 
well." 

Diane  drew  swiftly  away,  "Ah!  Denis,  I  cannot," 
she  cried — "indeed  I  cannot." 

"I  know,"  said  Denis  sadly — "I  know."  He  looked 
at  her  long ;  then,  with  a  quick  indrawn  breath,  turned 
to  Bonaparte.  "Sir,  you  are  a  most  true  friend.  You 
fight  for  me,  you  give  me  my  freedom,  you — you  try 


HOW  HE  FOUGHT  FOR  SOULS  45 

to  give  me  even — ah,  God,  you  are  nobler  than  I." 

Bonaparte,  the  little  man,  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  the  two  strong  and  lovely  as  man  and  woman 
may  be  in  their  springtime,  the  two  who  had  been 
happy  till  his  power  cut  across  their  lives.  There  was 
a  light  in  his  grey  eyes  not  of  love  nor  friendship — the 
barren  joy  of  conquest.  He  had  fought  for  their 
souls,  and  won.  Defeat  was  all  he  wanted  of  them.  .  .  . 

"I  go,"  said  Denis.  "I  shall  find  some  life  to  live. 
Sir,  I  shall  always  try  to  do  nothing  unworthy  of  the 
man  who  is  your  friend."  He  turned  to  his  love: 
"Diane!"  A  listless  hand  fell  into  his.  Denis  held 
it  long  to  his  lips.  Bonaparte  opened  the  door.  Bona- 
parte gave  him  an  embrace.  Denis  went  out  to  the 
night  alone. 

Diane,  lovely,  radiant  of  joy,  came  swift  to  Bona- 
parte, holding  out  her  hands.  "Now,  now" — she  gave 
a  low,  glad  cry — "what  hinders  now?" 

Bonaparte  put  up  a  hand  against  her.  The  smile 
froze  on  her  lips.  The  glow  in  her  eyes  was  dead. 
"Mademoiselle,  this.  I  dare  not  say  to  you  what  you 
have  said  to  me." 

"You — you  do  not  care?"  she  cried. 

"Can  I  cheat  you?" 

She  reeled,  she  fell  against  the  wall  and  leant  there, 
hiding  her  face.  .  .  .  She  turned,  and  her  lips  were 
white.  "You  are  good  not  to  cheat,"  she  said  feebly. 
.  .  .  "Yes,  you  are  good  and  great  and  true.  You 
could  not  love  me.  .  .  .  And  yet — and  yet" — the  white 
lips  parted  in  a  piteous  smile — "I  am  glad  I  love  you, 
you  know." 

Bonaparte  bowed.  .  .  .  And  Diane  went  out  to  the 
hight  alone. 


46 

Bonaparte  shut  her  out,  and,  turning,  picked  up  her 
whip  and  smiled  at  it. 

Then  Colonel  Vassary  came  out  from  behind  the 
curtain  and  considered  him  gravely.  "Is  it  worth 
while?"  Colonel  Vassary  inquired. 

Bonaparte  playqd  with  her  whip  and  smiled  still. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW!    HE    CHOSE    UFE 

THE  Dauphiny  was  aflame.  To  that  most  miserable 
province  the  spirit  of  liberty  had  come  at  last:  and 
men  who  had  had  a  right  to  nothing,  not  even  to  life, 
woke  suddenly  to  their  manhood,  and  drunk  with  their 
own  strength  and  frenzied  with  past  wrongs,  smote 
down  their  lords  in  a  welter  of  blood  and  fire. 

When  the  wild  horde  broke,  with  mattock  and  torch, 
into  the  chateau  of  Sirac,  M.  de  Sirac,  the  old  seigneur, 
killed  his  man  and  was  killed,  sword  in  hand,  in  his 
own  hall.  He  was  fortunate.  They  hunted  for  his 
daughter  to  mock  at  her  with  his  blood.  But  she  was 
not  found.  No  one,  you  might  think,  would  put  him- 
self to  pains  to  save  one  of  the  seigneur's  kin.  And 
Diane  de  Sirac,  who  was  pride  incarnate,  who  cared 
just  so  much  for  men  and  women  as  for  her  hound, 
had  scorned  to  earn  kindness.  But  there  are  men  whom 
a  woman's  haughtiness  pleases.  Diane  de  Sirac  had 
found  favour  with  a  footman.  It  was  he  who  led  her 
away,  wild  with  rage  and  shame — not  fear — and 
brought  her  out  by  a  servant's  stair  and  set  her  on 
the  road  to  Valence.  He  would  have  come  to  guide 
her  farther,  but  she  bade  him  away  proudly  as  of  old, 
and  reluctant,  submissive,  the  fellow  left  her.  That 
she  should  be  grateful  occurred  to  neither  of  them. 

She  made  her  way  afoot,  and  near  penniless  at  last, 
to  Paris.  There  only,  with  all  France  in  turmoil,  with 


48  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

her  kinsfolk  slain,  could  she  count  on  a  friend.  There 
only  she  knew  men  to  trust — Captain  Bonaparte,  her 
cousin  Denis. 

I  wonder  sometimes  whether  to  sneer  at  Denis  de 
Sirac  or  honour  him.  Though  Diane  had  loved  him, 
had  promised  herself  to  him,  before  Captain  Bonaparte 
came  into  their  lives  and  compelled  her  love  and  won 
it  and  scorned  it,  yet  Denis  stayed  Bonaparte's  friend, 
and,  hopeless,  loved  Diane  still.  He  has  been  called 
noble — and  other  names. 

Now  for  shelter,  for  bread,  the  girl  had  to  get  help 
of  one  or  other.  All  her  love,  her  very  soul,  were  Bona- 
parte's. To  Denis  she  had  nothing  to  give.  She  was 
wholly  a  woman.  It  was  of  Denis  she  chose  to  beg. 
That  was  shame  enough.  Lurking  in  a  squalid  lodging 
of  the  Rue  Pastourelle,  she  ate  the  meanest  food  and 
bent  her  pride  to  ask  seamstress  work  of  coarse  women 
of  the  town,  hoping,  struggling  desperately  for  an 
hour  when  she  could  be  free  of  his  alms. 

Denis,  aristocrat  of  twenty  descents,  was  earning 
a  difficult  living  in  a  harness  shop.  Thence  he  came 
often  to  Diane's  lodging — more  often  than  she  wished 
— and  sometimes  he  brought  Captain  Bonaparte.  He 
longed  to  make  her  happy.  Captain  Bonaparte,  want- 
ing nothing  of  the  girl,  had  still  the  amusement  of 
being  sure  of  her,  and  enjoyed  her  discomfort.  His 
tastes  in  pleasure  were  less  than  divine. 

While  Diane  was  alone,  a  vision  of  the  two  came  up 
before  her  many  a  time:  Bonaparte,  the  little  man  of 
the  dominant  steel  eyes  and  the  massive,  hard  face  that 
mocked  at  everything  but  material  power — Denis,  sad 
and  tender  with  hopeless  love.  And  she  thought  of 
the  days  when  she  had  been  happy  with  Denis,  and 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  49 

yearned  sometimes  to  love  him  again  and  find  peace. 
But  Bonaparte  had  gripped  her  soul. 

In  these  dragging  days  of  trouble  the  charm  of  her 
grew.  Of  old,  in  the  wealth  of  her  pride,  she  had  been 
of  a  glorious  queenly  beauty.  Now  there  came  to 
ennoble  it  the  knowledge  of  sorrow,  and  a  wistful 
yearning  for  things  beyond.  Now  she  put  on  a  rarer, 
purer  loveliness. 

About  her  roared  the  mad  Paris  of  the  Terror. 
Time  and  again  she  heard  the  mob  rave  down  the  street 
upon  the  scent  of  blood,  and  the  shrieks  of  a  wretch 
killed  hideously.  She  heard  the  drums  that  beat  for 
the  slaying  of  the  Queen.  She  saw  Marie  Antoinette, 
a  grey  wan  widow,  borne  by  on  the  tumbril,  reeling 
helpless  with  bound  hands  as  it  jolted  over  the  stones 
through  a  mob  that  jeered  at  her  with  filthy  taunts 
and  spat.  She  was  of  those  who  trembled  to  the  yell 
of  joy  that  echoed  over  Paris  when  Sanson  held  aloft 
the  head  and  the  mob  saw  its  blood. 

That  night  she  had  to  take  a  bundle  of  linen  back 
to  a  shop-woman.  Her  way  was  across  the  Place  de  la 
Revolution.  There,  beneath  the  scaffold,  there  upon 
the  ground  that  had  drunk  the  Queen's  blood,  a  wild 
throng  reeled  in  torchlight,  dancing.  In  the  midst 
moved  asses  housed  in  surplice  and  cope,  and  ridden  by 
half-naked  men  girt  with  scarlet,  who  yelled  a  foul 
mockery  of  the  liturgy.  All  about  them  men,  women 
and  girls,  dishevelled,  bare  of  neck  and  breast,  flung 
themselves  to  and  fro  shrieking,  drunk  with  stupid 
passion.  It  was  the  carmagnole,  the  dance  of  lib- 
erty. 

One  reeking  sans-culotte  caught  Diane  de  Sirac 
about  the  waist,  and  was  whirling  her  into  the  throng. 


50 


She — she  was  strong  as  many  a  man — wrenched  her- 
self free  and  hurried  away,  in  a  frenzy  of  loathing. 

But  another  man,  who  had  seen  it,  and  marked  her 
strength  and  beauty,  followed  her — followed  her  home. 

This  was  one  whom  the  memoirs  call  Simon  the 
Sausage.  The  Terror  gave  their  chance  to  a  galaxy 
of  rogues  who  hang  now  carrion  on  the  gibbet  of 
history — Hebert  and  Carrier  and  Barere.  Simon  the 
Sausage  might  have  been  the  equal  of  the  worst  of 
them.  But  he  crossed  the  path  of  Captain  Bonaparte. 
Before  that,  indeed,  he  lived  long  enough  to  do  some 
considerable  vileness.  He  led  in  the  foul  butchery  of 
the  Princesse  de  Lamballe.  It  was  his  ingenious  mind 
that  thought  of  making  the  daughters  of  aristocrats 
drink  their  fathers'  blood.  For  reward,  the  Govern- 
ment of  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity,  the  austere 
worshippers  of  reason,  made  him  chief  gaoler  of  the 
Conciergerie,  and  there,  half-turnkey,  half-spy,  he 
worked  as  hard  for  the  devil  as  any  man  of  his  day. 

He  was  of  middle  size,  this  Simon  the  Sausage,  and 
very  sleek,  with  a  fat  face  of  small  features.  You  may 
see  him  on  that  autumn  night  going  stealthily  as  a 
beast  of  prey  close  after  Diane's  footsteps,  marking 
with  greedy  eyes  every  turn  of  her  form. 

With  the  noon  of  the  next  day  came  to  her  dingy 
little  room  a  pair  of  big,  dirty,  red-capped  tipstaffs — 
ministers  of  that  strange  Committee  of  Public  Safety. 

"The  Citizeness  Sirac?" 

"It  is  I." 

"To  the  Conciergerie !" 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  she  cried. 

One  drew  his  filthy  finger  across  her  white  neck. 

She  started  back,  shuddering — with  loathing,  not 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  51 

fear.  "I  have  done  nothing,"  she  said,  cold  and  defiant. 
"I  will  not  go." 

With  a  laugh  the  two  caught  her  in  their  arms. 
"Struggle,  then.  It  will  be  the  more  amusing;"  and 
they  hugged  her  between  them,  limb  to  limb. 

She  was  still  as  a  statue,  and  cold.  .  .  .  Reluc- 
tantly they  let  her  go.  So,  unresisting,  disdainful,  she 
went  their  way,  down  narrow  streets  where  patriot 
sans-culottes  howled  jokes  at  her  to  the  tipstaffs,  and 
the  tipstaffs  jeered  foulness  back.  .  .  .  The  hungry 
gates  of  the  Conciergerie  closed  upon  one  victim  more. 

She  was  alone,  in  a  dark  cell,  and  Simon  the  Sausage 
came  to  her.  "Ah,  Diane  Sirac,"  said  he,  smiling  and 
licking  his  lips — "the  lass  that  would  not  dance  the 
carmagnole.  Well,  Diane,  your  head  will  try  dancing 
away  from  your  body.  So — flick,  plop,  plop."  He  imi- 
tated the  sound  of  the  guillotine,  the  fall  of  the  head  to 
the  basket,  and  licked  his  lips  again  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"That — is  that  your  charge?"  she  cried.  "Because 
I  would  not  dance  with  those  beasts  I  am  to  die  ?" 

"We  like  the  colour  of  aristocrats'  blood,"  said 
Simon.  "Have  you  much  blood  in  you,  Diane?"  He 
gripped  her  chin  in  his  sleek  hand  and  turned  her  face 
to  the  light.  Fiercely  she  thrust  him  away.  "Well, 
I  shall  see  it  come  out,"  said  Simon,  laughing  silently, 
and  with  that  left  her. 

Life — life  had  given  her  no  joy.  An  end  of  it  all — 
an  end  of  the  struggle  and  squalor  and  shame;  death, 
though  death  meant  nothingness — might  well  have  been 
grateful.  But  she  clung  desperately  to  life.  All  her 
being  longed  to  do  its  work  in  the  world  she  knew. 
.  .  .  And  while  she  lived  she  had  still  some  desperate 
hope  of  Bonaparte's  love.  To  die  without  it,  to  pass 


unloved  beyond  the  veil — that  was  the  bitterest  shame 
and  pain.  .  .  .  There  was  no  fear  in  her,  but  she 
throbbed  with  longing  for  life. 

Ah,  if  he  knew!  She  saw  again  the  dominant  war- 
rior strength  of  that  massive  head,  the  trenchant  gleam 
of  his  steel  eyes.  There  was  nothing  could  stand 
against  him — against  him  who  was  power  itself.  Yes ! 
He  could  save  her  from  the  very  verge  of  doom.  .  .  . 
And  he  would.  He  cared  enough  to  do  that.  He  was 
her — friend  (she  blushed  and  was  cold  again  as  she 
thought  the  word).  .  .  .  Only  her  friend.  .  .  .  Ah, 
but  if  he  thought  of  her  in  peril  and  suffering — if  he 
worked  for  her  and  saved  her — if  he  gave  her  life  again 
— surely  of  that  might  come  love  .  .  .  love.  .  .  .  She 
blushed  again,  and  now  was  glad  of  her  blush,  and 
gave  a  little  low  laugh. 

She  had  no  thought  of  Denis. 

Keys  were  rattling  in  the  corridor,  bolts  and  hinges 
creaked.  Her  own  door  was  flung  open  again.  "She- 
aristocrat!"  a  turnkey  called  to  her,  "Come!"  She 
saw  prisoners  thronging  down  the  squalid  gloomy  cor- 
ridor, laughing  gaily  as  though  it  were  a  gallery  of 
the  Trianon,  and  the  Queen  still  reigned.  "Come,  sow, 
go  with  your  herd,"  cried  the  turnkey,  impatient. 

She  turned  from  him  disdainfully.  With  some  foul 
word,  he  was  shutting  the  door  again.  Then  suddenly, 
all  pride  gone,  she  ran  to  him.  "Ah,  sir,  if  I  might 
write  a  letter  ?"  she  cried,  her  hand  on  his.  He  slammed 
the  door  in  her  face. 

But,  after  a  while,  he  came  back,  strangely  trans- 
formed, unctuous,  not  surly.  "Citizeness,  we  allow  you 
to  write,"  he  said  with  a  leer,  and  gave  her  paper  and 
ink  and  pen. 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  53 

SIR, — I  am  here  in  the  Conciergerie,  in  peril  of  death, 
or  I  know  not  what.  Help  me,  I  pray  you ;  save  me. — 
DIANE. 

Hastily,  with  trembling  hands,  she  wrote,  and  her 
heart  was  quick  in  joy.  The  letter  was  folded,  and 
addressed  to  Captain  Bonaparte,  in  the  Rue  Therese. 
Blushing,  smiling,  she  held  it  out  to  the  turnkey :  "Sir, 
I  would  thank  you  much  to  send  it." 

"Send  it?"  says  the  fellow,  grinning.  "Surely,  my 
wench,"  and  he  stuffed  it  into  his  blouse.  "Come,  now  1" 
He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  swung  her  through 
the  door.  "Away,  with  your  herd !"  He  pointed  down 
the  corridor  and  turned  away. 

Diane  came  to  the  hall  of  the  prison  and  found  it 
thronged.  As  she  went  in,  diffident,  wondering,  an  easy 
delectable  jest  rang  in  her  ear  and  jarred  strangely. 
But  all,  in  their  pathetic  shabby  finery,  all  were  gay. 
Here,  some  walked  a  minuet,  with  punctilious  grace. 
There,  they  were  eager  over  the  cards  at  ombre.  Many 
and  many  a  woman  was  laughing  and  blushing  as 
she  played  at  love.  The  shadow  of  death  had  no 
power. 

A  little  old  man  slid  to  Diane's  elbow.  His  bow  was 
worthy  the  Grand  Monarque.  "Mademoiselle  will  per- 
mit me  the  felicity  of  presenting  myself — the  Marquis 
de  Niort." 

"It  is  an  honour  to  Diane  de  Sirac,  sir,"  says  she, 
with  a  curtsy. 

The  old  gentleman  bowed  again,  and,  taking  her 
hand,  led  her  delicately  through  the  throng  to  his  wife. 
The  Marquise  de  Niort,  little  and  old  like  himself,  drew 
Diane's  stately  beauty  to  her  bosom.  "Do  not  grudge 


54  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

me  so  great  pleasure,  my  dear,"  she  said,  and  kissed 
the  girl. 

With  that,  with  that  at  last,  Diane's  eyes  were  wet, 
and  for  a  moment  she  could  not  speak.  "Ah,  it  is 
good  of  them  to  let  us  all  be  together,"  she  said  un- 
steadily. 

"Pray  do  not  do  the  canaille  the  injustice  of  suppos- 
ing them  kind,"  said  the  Marquis.  "We  are  brought 
together  in  order  that  they  may  read  out  to  us  the 
list  of  those  who  are  to  visit  the  guillotine  to-morrow. 
They  hope  for  some  amusement  from  our  emotions  and 
our  farewells.  I  think" — he  smiled  satisfaction — "I 
think  we  have  amused  them  very  little.  We  prefer  to 
amuse  ourselves,"  and  he  waved  a  delicate  lean  hand 
to  the  card-players,  and  the  dance,  and  the  love- 
making.  Then,  turning  to  his  wife,  "But  indeed, 
madame" — and  he  bowed  to  her — "where  you  are  there 
must  always  be  joy." 

"When  the  men  are  happy,  happiness  is  easy  for 
us,  is  it  not,  my  dear?"  The  Marquise  smiled  to  Diane, 
and  gave  room  for  her  on  the  bench. 

Men  and  women  came  from  their  cards  and  their 
games  of  love  to  greet  Diane  and  welcome  her,  with 
hospitable  grace,  to  their  company.  In  the  midst 
of  the  gay  politeness,  Diane's  smile  suddenly  died. 
"Denis!"  she  gasped.  Denis  was  coming  swiftly 
towards  her,  and  she  started  up  to  meet  him.  "Why 
are  you  here?"  she  cried. 

Denis  was  dumb,  gazing  at  her  in  wild  sorrow.  The 
Marquis  de  Niort  explained.  "When  the  Queen" — he 
crossed  himself — "was  on  her  way  to — happiness,  mon- 
sieur had  the  honour  of  beating  down  a  rogue  who 
insulted  her.  Thereupon  he  had  the  pleasure  of  being 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  55 

set  upon  by  the  canaille.     I  protest  I  envy  monsieur." 

"It  was  like  you,  Denis,"  said  Diane,  and  smiled  at 
him. 

"But  you,  Diane,  you?"  Denis  cried. 

"I?  Oh,  after — after — at  night — I  would  not  dance 
the  carmagnole  with  them." 

Denis  and  she  stood  together,  tall  and  strong,  and 
the  Marquis  de  Niort  smiled  at  them.  She  was  thinking 
that  they  were  well  matched. 

But  Denis,  looking  into  Diane's  glorious  dark  eyes, 
flinched  like  a  man  in  pain.  "Ah,  Diane,  you  too !"  he 
said  hoarsely ;  "that  is  hard." 

Diane  drew  him  away,  drew  him  close  to  her  and 
whispered:  "Denis,  there  is  hope!  there  is  hope!"  I 
have  got  a  letter  to  Captain  Bonaparte.  He  may 
save  me — oh,  you  know  he  can! — and  if  me,  he  must 
save  you  too." 

Denis  stepped  back  a  pace.  His  eyes  had  no  joy. 
"If  he  saves  you — it  is  well,"  he  said  in  a  moment. 

"You  know  how  great  he  is !" 

"I  know,"  said  Denis. 

And  indeed  Diane's  letter  had  come  to  Captain  Bona- 
parte. Captain  Bonaparte  sat  in  his  little  room  in 
the  Rue  Therese  studying  the  strategical  remains  of 
the  Marechal  de  Maillebois.  To  him  entered  Simon  the 
Sausage,  and,  without  a  word,  held  out  the  letter. 
Bonaparte  flicked  it  open : 

SIR, — I  am  here  in  the  Conciergerie,  in  peril  of 
death,  or  I  know  not  what.  Help  me,  I  pray  you; 
save  me. — DIANE. 

You   imagine   the  smile   on   that  bronze   face.     It 


56  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

amused  him  that  she  should  cry  to  him.  It  amused 
him  that  she  should  suppose  he  would  risk  himself  to 
help  her. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  Simon  the  Sausage  smiling 
too.  "What  are  you?"  said  Captain  Bonaparte 
sharply. 

"I  will  show  you,"  said  Simon,  and  whistled  between 
his  teeth. 

On  the  instant  broke  into  the  room  four  red-capped 
tipstaffs.  Simon  the  Sausage  jerked  his  thumb  at  Cap- 
tain Bonaparte.  "The  Citizen  Bonaparte,  for  con- 
spiring to  rescue  the  prisoners  of  the  Republic.  To 
the  Conciergerie." 

Emotions  less  than  the  noblest  possessed  Captain 
Bonaparte.  He  started  up  with  an  oath:  "Fool!  be- 
cause a  lovesick  wench  writes  a  fatuous  letter,  am  I 
to  suffer?" 

Simon  the  Sausage  grinned:  "My  brave  man,  you 
should  not  let  she-aristocrats  love  you.  Come,  Citizen, 
come  and  be  wed,  with  the  scaffold  for  the  church  and 
Madame  Guillotine  for  priest."  He  led  the  way  out, 
singing : 

'Allans,  enfants  de  la  patrie! 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive 

and  so  Bonaparte,  struggling,  swearing,  was  borne 
away  to  prison,  while  the  tipstaffs  yelled  the  "Mar- 
seillaise." 

In  the  hall  of  the  prison  the  Marquise  de  Niort  had 
a  laughing  company  about  her  who  played  at  making 
rhymes.  From  amidst  another  throng  in  the  gay  arch, 
in  the  voice  of  a  girl,  came  La  Fontaine's  song :  "Love  is 
master  of  all  the  world — love,  then,  love;  all  the  rest 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  57 

is  nothing."  The  dancers  were  smiling  at  each  other. 
But  in  the  courtyard  without,  pressing  against  the 
gate's  iron  railings,  were  grim  faces  of  hate — men,  and 
sexless  women,  yearning  for  the  sight  of  suffering. 

Turnkeys  shuffled  into  the  hall,  and  one  took  his 
stand  on  a  chair.  From  the  courtyard  came  a  hoarse 
yell:  "The  batch,  the  batch  for  Madame  Guillotine." 

The  song  fell  silent,  the  dance  stopped  lazily;  non- 
chalant, the  prisoners  disposed  themselves  to  listen. 
The  Marquis  de  Niort  yawned.  "This  affair  is  daily 
more  fatiguing,"  he  remarked. 

In  a  raucous  voice  the  turnkey  began  to  read  the  list 
of  those  who  were  to  die  on  the  morrow.  He  paused 
long  between  each  name,  and  he  and  his  fellows  and 
the  crowd  without  stared  greedily  at  the  victim  for 
signs  of  sorrow  or  pain  or  fear. 

But  they  had  little  amusement.  Men  and  women  met 
the  sound  of  doom  with  an  easy  smile.  Once,  indeed,  a 
choked  sob  brought  a  roar  of  laughter  from  beyond  the 
gate.  The  Marquis  de  Niort  turned  to  stare  at  the 
offender.  "The  person  Barbesieux,"  he  remarked. 
"Base  blood  came  into  that  family  under  Louis 
XIII." 

And  then  the  Marquis  heard  his  wife's  name  and  his 
own.  The  look  of  bored  contempt  on  his  face  changed 
no  whit.  His  fingers  still  drummed  lightly  on  his  knee. 
And  Madame  la  Marquise  smiled.  ...  In  a  moment 
more  the  list  of  death  was  done. 

The  Marquis  turned  to  his  wife :  "We  are  fortunate, 
madame,"  and  he  kissed  her  hand. 

"So  I  am  never  to  know  what  sorrow  is  like,"  she 
said. 

And  all  around,  those  who  were  to  live  another  day 


58  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

came  thronging  to  congratulate  those  for  whom  the 
morning  would  bring  death. 

The  mob  of  the  courtyard  slunk  snarling  away. 

That  old  noblesse — people  of  no  importance,  who 
conceived  themselves  lords  of  the  earth — they  were 
ridiculous  enough.  But  they  knew  how  to  endure ;  they 
knew  how  to  die. 

Into  the  hall  where  they  were  glad  in  the  coming  of 
death  was  thrust  Captain  Bonaparte.  Some  one  turned 
to  welcome  "the  last  guest  of  our  hotel,  death's  new 
courtier,"  but  shrank  back  from  the  cold  glare  of  his 
grey  eyes.  Bonaparte  stumbled  through  the  throng,  a 
strange,  grim  little  figure,  his  huge  head  sunk  upon 
his  shoulders,  the  mighty,  bronze  face  of  him  distorted 
with  impotent,  angry  hate.  "Faith,  'tis  the  devil  him- 
self in  torment !"  some  one  muttered. 

Diane  saw  him,  and  her  face  was  frozen  in  white  hor- 
ror. Captain  Bonaparte  glared  at  her.  "I  do  not 
know  why  you  should  be  surprised,  mademoiselle,"  he 
snarled.  "Your  stupidity  has  brought  me  here." 

"I?"  Diane  gasped,  her  hand  gripping  at  her  heart. 
"I?  Ah,  no,  no:  do  not  say  it!" 

Bonaparte  swore.  "Fool!  When  you  write  to  me 
to  rescue  you  from  prison  and  gave  the  letter  to  a  turn- 
key, what  did  you  hope  but  that  I  should  have  to  die 
with  you — and  die  cursing  you !" 

At  that  even  Denis,  who  had  loved  him,  had  wor- 
shipped him  more  than  man  should  worship  man,  looked 
grim  at  him.  "You  are  less  than  generous,  Bona- 
parte," he  said. 

But  Diane  had  sunk  down  and  hid  her  face,  and 
bowed  herself,  and  was  wrought  with  sobs. 

"Generous  !"  cried  Bonaparte.    "I  want  life.    Do  you 


Bonaparte  Stumbled  Through  the  Throng,  a  Strange 
Grim  Little  Figure 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  59 

understand?  I  want  life!  I  can  use  it.  I  do  not  make 
a  toy  of  it,  like  these  children.  Am  I  to  die  for 
a  she-fool's  vapours?  To  die  now,  with  nothing 
done?" 

With  contempt  the  Marquis  de  Niort  turned  to  Cap- 
tain Bonaparte.  "You  make  a  noise,  sir,"  he  said. 
"It  is  vulgar.  And  you  do  not  seem  to  understand  that 
it  is  honour  for  you  to  die  on  the  same  scaffold  as 
mademoiselle." 

Bonaparte  flung  from  him,  crying  an  oath,  and 
stamped  to  and  fro  among  the  crowd,  gnawing  his  nails. 
Denis  looked  after  him  with  something  like  scorn,  and 
then  gravely,  sadly,  and  most  tenderly  down  at  Diane 
torn  with  grief. 

Away  in  the  background  Simon  the  Sausage  was 
much  pleased  with  their  emotions  and,  taking  his  fill 
of  delight,  waited  long  before  he  started  the  cry,  "Pigs, 
back  to  your  styes,"  and  set  his  turnkeys  driving  the 
prisoners  away  to  their  cells  again.  As  they  went 
Denis  snatched  Diane's  hand  to  his  lips. 

You  may  think  of  Bonaparte  raging,  impotent,  all 
night  long.  He  was  little  enough  a  coward.  But  the 
vast  power  of  him  robbed  of  a  chance  to  use  itself,  and 
the  giant  ambition  baulked  of  all  its  desire,  gnawed 
and  racked  him.  To  die  barren  of  achievement!  It 
was  worse  to  him  than  shame  to  a  woman. 

But  Diane ! — through  the  gloom  you  see  Diane  fallen 
across  her  bed  and  moaning.  .  .  . 

Simon  the  Sausage  came  into  the  cell  with  a  lantern, 
looked  at  her,  cheery  and  critical,  chuckled,  sat  him- 
self on  the  bed  beside  her,  put  his  arms  about  her  and 
lifted  her.  A  wan,  wet,  piteous  face  amused  him  further. 
She  hung  lifeless  upon  his  arm,  stared  at  him  with 


60  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

unseeing  eyes,  dazed.  Simon  clasped  her  against  his 
sleek  breast. 

Then,  with  wild  strength,  she  hurled  herself  free, 
and  stood,  flushed  and  gloriously  beautiful,  in  the 
proud  courage  of  her  maidenhood. 

Simon  approached  her  with  a  leer. 

She  drew  herself  up,  lips  set,  eyes  defiant. 

Simon  thought  better  of  it.  "I  never  fight  women. 
I  arrange  that  they  have  to  offer.  You  will  be  ready 
enough  to  kiss,  my  dear,  when  you  are  my  wife." 

A  moment  her  eyes  were  amazed,  a  moment  she 
blushed.  Then  her  scornful  laugh  rang  out.  Simon 
shrugged.  "It  is  amusing,  is  it?  Think,  my  pretty; 
as  sure  as  your  skin  is  white,  you  are  to  wed  the  guillo- 
tine. Well,  I  like  you  big  women.  Wed  me  instead, 
and  I  will  save  you."  She  laughed  again.  "Do  you 
think  there  is  any  woman  would  not  rather  wed  death 
than  you?" 

"I  thought  you  were  one  of  these  proud  pieces.  That 
is  why  I  like  to  make  you  grovel.  Well,  my  pretty, 
and  what  of  your  love?  You  brought  him  here,  you 
know!"  The  girl  quivered  and  Simon  grinned:  "Oh, 
by  the  basket,  you  are  a  kind  fool!  You  brought  him 
here,  and  Madame  Guillotine  shall  have  his  head  unless 
you  are  my  little  wife.  Think,  my  pretty !  The  dear 
one's  head  to  the  basket  unless  you  take  Simon  to  your 
arms !" 

She  looked  down  at  him  with  eyes  of  loathing. 
"Hound!  Do  you  think  I  would  wrong  him  so?" 

"Wrong  him !"  Simon  laughed.  "Wrong  him !  Good, 
by  the  sawdust:  good!  Do  you  think  any  man  would 
love  you  as  well  as  life?  And  this  booby  of  yours — I 
heard  him  thank  you  for  bringing  him  into  danger. 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  61 

By  the  basket,  how  he  will  thank  you  for  bringing  him 
to  death!     Try  him,  my  pretty.     Tell  him  you  have 
only  to  wed  to  keep  his  head  on,  but  he  must  die  to 
keep  you  a  maid."     She  was  white  and  dumb. 
Simon  laughed  at  her  and  went  out  singing : 

En  revant  a  la  sourdine 
J'ai  fait  une  machine, 
Tralala  la,  lalala,  lala,  lalala,  lala,  lalala, 
Qui  met  les  tetes  a  la  bas. 

Simon  was  most  happy.  To  be  master  of  Diane's 
beauty,  that  indeed  he  desired,  but  to  see  her  torn  with 
the  pang  of  choice  between  her  lover's  death  and  her 
own  life's  ruin  was  greater  joy.  He  looked  forward 
to  perfect  delight  in  her  agony. 

Diane  lay  writhing  in  her  cell.  Sorrow  enough  it 
was  to  have  brought  her  love  to  death,  and  sorrow  more 
bitter  to  choose  between  saving  him  and  shame;  but 
worse  far,  the  keenest  pang  her  soul  could  know,  to 
doubt  her  love — to  suspect  him  base,  to  fear  he  would 
bid  her  go  to  shame  so  he  could  live.  .  .  .  You  fancy 
the  shuddering  torture  of  those  long  dark  hours. 

Now  Simon  the  Sausage  had  made  a  mistake.  His 
view  of  Captain  Bonaparte's  emotions  had  convinced 
him  that  the  man  was  a  coward.  (It  is  that  little  mis- 
take of  Simon's  which  robbed  him  of  the  time  to  earn 
a  place  on  the  roll  of  infamy  beside  Hebert  and 
Barere).  He  wrote  Bonaparte  down  a  coward,  and, 
greedy  for  a  sight  of  his  emotions  in  the  jaws  of  death, 
set  him  in  the  batch  of  those  to  be  tried  for  their  lives 
on  the  morrow. 

Look  at  the  Hall  of  Liberty.     On  its  walls  are  the 


62  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

busts  of  Brutus  and  Marat,  those  famous  sentimental 
murderers.  Beneath  them  the  three  judges  lounge  at 
their  ease,  with  hats  plumed  by  tricolour  streamers 
tilted  back  from  faces  that  bear  still  the  marks  of  last 
night's  debauch  at  the  Restaurant  Meot.  The  jury — 
from  the  strange  clothes  and  the  wild,  dishevelled  hair 
and  the  bestial  howls  when  some  wretch  of  a  prisoner 
dares  speak  for  his  life — you  might  think  them  a  jury 
of  mad  men.  In  a  frenzy  of  haste,  they  send  women 
and  men  to  death.  They  hear  no  evidence.  They 
scarcely  heed  the  charge.  What  matter?  Here  are 
those  of  their  own  kind  to  slay. 

Behind  the  howling  jury  you  see  a  sleek  face  smile. 
Simon  is  there,  and  others  of  his  kind,  smiling  as  the 
mob  of  Rome  smiled  when  wild  beasts  tore  and  tortured 
maids. 

One  poor  soul  shrieks  for  mercy.  They  laugh,  and 
condemn  her,  and  she  is  dragged  down.  Comes  a  man 
who  disdains  to  plead.  He  tears  open  his  shirt  and 
shows  his  neck  bare.  "Cut,  then!"  he  cries,  and  him 
too  they  doom,  and  he  is  gone. 

Bonaparte's  grim,  bronze  face  stands  against  the 
light,  and  Simon  frowns:  for  there  is  no  sign  of  fear 
or  pain. 

"Accused  of  conspiracy  to  rescue  prisoners  of  the 
Republic,"  cries  the  usher,  in  a  breath.  "Speak, 
accused." 

Bonaparte  turns  to  the  jury.  "Canaille,"  says  he, 
and  laughs  at  them. 

Yells  and  shrieks  of  fury  answer,  and  the  turnkeys 
snatch  him  away.  And  so  the  ghastly  mockery  goes 
on.  Liberty,  Equality  and  Fraternity  prevail  in 
France, 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  63 

In  the  hall  of  the  Conciergerle  the  prisoners  were 
gathered  again  to  hear  whom  the  guillotine  would  take 
on  the  morrow.  Again  they  sat  at  cards,  again  they 
danced.  Hands  they  had  kissed  and  lips  that  smiled 
to  them  yesterday  were  cold  now  and  under  the  sod, 
but  still  their  gaiety  mocked  at  death.  .  .  .  Diane's 
eyes  were  dull,  and  her  cheeks  pale,  and  she  trembled 
when  a  woman  spoke  to  her.  Already  she  felt  the  stain 
of  shame.  Denis  came  to  her,  and  kissed  her  hand,  but 
at  the  touch  of  his  lips  she  shrank  away  and  shud- 
dered. 

"Am  I  so  hateful,  Diane?"  said  Denis,  with  a  sad 
smile. 

She  was  crimson.  "No !  No !  Indeed,  not  that," 
she  gasped.  She  looked  up  at  him  timidly,  and  saw 
the  sorrow  and  love  in  his  eyes.  "Oh,  you  are  noble 
and  kind,  .  .  .  ."  again  that  strange,  convulsive  shud- 
der. "Ah,  please  let  me  be  alone !"  That  strong,  clean 
love  of  his  made  the  thought  of  herself  and  of  shame 
more  bitter  pain. 

Denis  could  not  guess  that.  Denis  turned  sadly 
away.  For  the  first  time,  Diane,  watching  him,  felt 
the  pain  that  he  felt  of  his  hopeless  love.  For  the  first 
time  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  loving  her.  .  .  . 

And  then  Bonaparte  came,  a  sneer  on  his  grim  face, 
his  grey  eyes  cruel.  "You  have  been  most  successful, 
mademoiselle.  I  was  sentenced  to  death  this  morning. 
I  congratulate  you." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  long  sigh  of  pain. 
"Oh,  you  hurt  me,  you  hurt  me!"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self. Then  she  rose  with  strange,  stiff  movements. 
"Come  with  me,"  she  said,  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 


64  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

She  could  touch  him.  If  there  was  shame  for  her, 
he  shared  it. 

"I  could  wish  you  less  interested  in  me,  mademois- 
elle," said  Bonaparte  sourly. 

"Oh,  I  brought  you  to  death.  I  know;  I  know.  It 
hurts  enough."  She  drew  him  apart,  she  whispered, 
trembling:  "There  is  a  way.  If  I — if  I  will — will  give 
myself  to  this  fellow,  this  Simon — he  will  save  you. 
.  .  .  Ah,  you  see!  You  see  what  it  means.  I  give 
myself  up  to  him  .  .  .  all." 

Her  eyes  sought  Bonaparte's,  wild  and  eager,  yearn- 
ing for  the  man  to  prove  himself  a  man. 

Bonaparte  turned  a  little  away.  His  great  brow 
lowered  down  over  his  eyes,  his  chin  was  sunk  on  his 
breast.  "Then  he  will  save  me?"  he  asked. 

She  gave  a  sudden  cry  of  pain,  and  pressed  her  free 
hand  to  her  side.  "Yes,  he  will  save  you,"  she  mut- 
tered. Then  she  caught  his  arm  closer.  "Ah,  but 
you  see,  you  see  what  it  means!"  and  her  voice 
throbbed.  "It  is  the  end  of  my  honour,  and — and 
yours." 

Bonaparte  turned  to  her  cold  wondering  eyes.  "I 
think  you  owe  me  a  little,  mademoiselle." 

She  drew  her  hand  from  his  arm,  she  started  away. 
*'You — you  bid  me  to  it,  then?" 

"I  have  some  use  for  my  life,"  said  Bonaparte. 

She  stood  gazing  at  him  long.  I  think  she  was 
^wondering  how  she  could  ever  have  loved  him — how  he 
could  have  seemed  to  her  great.  And  Bonaparte  met 
her  with  a  smile.  He  had  chosen  what  he  valued;  he 
never  understood  what  he  lost. 

A  turnkey  came  and  touched  her  arm:  "Citizeness, 
Master  Simon  would  have  a  word  with  you." 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  65 

She  started  round.  "I  come,"  she  cried,  and  fol- 
lowed the  man  swiftly.  For  the  moment  all  else  was 
lost  in  a  yearning  to  have  done  with  Bonaparte,  to 
set  him  free  and  owe  him  nothing. 

Simon  was  in  a  tiny  office  with  the  list  of  the  next 
day's  batch  for  the  guillotine  before  him.  He  waved 
the  turnkey  outside,  and,  when  the  door  was  shut,  leered 
at  Diane.  "Well,  my  pretty,"  said  he,  nudging  her, 
"and  how  is  the  lover  to-day?  Any  more  grateful 
for  death?  Come  now!"  He  slid  his  arm  round  her 
and  she  did  not  resist.  "What  of  our  little  bargain? 
Does  the  dear  one  bid  you  let  him  die?  Does  your 
darling  love  you  better  than  life?  Does " 

"Save  him!"  she  cried.  "Save  him!  And  I — I  will 
give  you  all." 

Simon  laughed.  "So  the  beloved  is  no  such  fool, 
after  all.  I  knew  he  would  teach  you  another  tone. 
Come  then,  my  pretty" — he  drew  her  against  him  and 
saw  her  loathing.  "How  you  hate  me!  That  will 
make  it  more  amusing."  Then  he  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously. "But,  by  the  basket,  how  you  must  love  him!" 

"Love  him!"  she  cried,  and  broke  away  and  stood 
flushed  and  panting  at  gaze.  "Love  him !"  she  gave  a 
strange,  wild  laugh.  "Oh,  indeed,  I  love  him !"  Simon 
looked  at  her  covetously  and  came  to  her  again.  She 
held  him  away.  "No !"  she  cried.  "Till  I  see  him  safe 
you  have  nothing  of  me." 

Simon  grinned.  "Have  it  so,  then.  I  think  I  can 
make  life  hateful  to  him.  And  to  you  too,  my  pretty. 
Away  with  you.  Back  to  the  herd.  They  must  hear 
which  are  to  bleed  in  the  morning."  He  drove  her  out. 

Slowly,  with  faltering  steps,  she  came  into  the  hall 
again.  Bonaparte  met  her  full.  Cold  and  shameless, 


66  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

his  grey  eyes  questioned.  "You  are  to  live.  Oh,  yes, 
you  are  to  live,"  she  muttered. 

Then,  after  a  moment:  "If  it  be  so,  mademois- 
elle, accounts  are  clear  between  us,"  said  Bona- 
parte. 

There  was  scorn  in  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  at  him; 
then  she  started  away  and  groped  for  a  chair  and  hid 
her  face.  Some  vision  of  the  agony  that  waited  had 
come  to  her,  and  she  loathed  him.  .  .  . 

Simon  was  reading  the  names  of  the  doomed.  Some 
one  behind  her  was  sobbing;  the  mob  in  the  courtyard 
howled  delight ;  but  she  heard  nothing.  .  .  .  Her  mind 
was  prisoned  in  shame.  .  .  . 

"Diane!"  Her  own  name  sounded  strangely.  "Di- 
ane !"  She  looked  up  and  saw  Denis.  "Good  bye,"  said 
Denis.  She  gazed  at  him  in  terror.  "I  am  one  of 
those  who — go "  he  said.  "Dear,  good-bye." 

"Ah,  Denis !  You !"  Her  voice  went  away. 

Her  throat,  her  bosom,  were  throbbing  wildly. 

"It  is  not  hard,"  said  Denis.  "Dear,  I  pray  that  it 
may  not  be  hard  for  you." 

"Oh,  Denis,  if  I  could  save  you!"  Her  brow  was 
bent,  she  plaited  her  fingers  nervously  together.  "If 
I  could — ah,  I  will  try!  .  .  .  This  fellow,  this  gaoler, 
he" — she  gave  a  wretched  laugh — "he  likes  me,  you 
know." 

Denis  gripped  her  hands.  "What  do  you  mean?" 
And  his  eyes  flamed.  "You  to  beg  of  that  hound? 
Diane,  you  dare  not!  God,  I  had  rather  live  in  hell 
than  have  you  humble  yourself  to  him.  You,  Diane ! 
You  know  you  must  not!" 

Diane,  who  was  looking  at  him  through  a  cloud  of 
tears,  tried  to  smile.  "I  must  not?"  she  echoed.  "I 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  67 

know,  Denis."  She  caught  his  hands  to  her  lips 
and  kissed  them  passionately.  "Now  go!  Please, 
please  go !" 

Denis  lingered  only  to  kiss  her  hands  in  turn.  Mak- 
ing his  way  through  the  throng  again,  he  came 
upon  Bonaparte,  who  said  coldly,  "I  am  sorry, 
Denis." 

"It  is  little  matter,"  said  Denis.  He  looked  Bona- 
parte in  the  eye,  man  to  man.  The  prison  had  cured 
him  of  worship.  Then  he  wrung  Bonaparte's  hand: 
"Man,  for  my  honour,  for  your  honour,  be  kind  to 
her — help  her." 

"It  is  my  intention,"  said  Bonaparte. 

And  now  the  turnkeys  were  raising  the  cry,  "Pigs, 
back  to  your  styes,"  and  the  prisoners  were  driven 
away  to  loneliness  and  gloom.  .  .  . 

Think  of  Diane  lying  there  in  the  dark,  dreaming 
of  shame  to  come,  and  hating  herself.  .  .  .  Simon  the 
Sausage  (he  was  always  a  careful  man)  waited  for 
his  turnkeys  to  start  their  supper  carouse  before  he 
came  to  her.  At  the  creak  of  the  bolts  she  sprang 
up.  "Now,  my  pretty,  joy  begins,"  said  he,  and  took 
her  hand  and  led  her  out  and  down  the  dim-lit  corridor, 
and  unlocked  the  double  doors  and  brought  her  to  his 
own  quarters  and  up  a  stair  to  a  gaudy  room.  There 
he  lit  candles  and  bade  her  wait,  and  went  back  for 
Bonaparte.  .  .  .  Diane  sat  huddled  together.  The 
glare  of  light  made  her  shame  worse. 

Simon  was  back  soon,  dragging  Bonaparte  after 
him.  "Come,  my  hero,"  said  he.  "A  little  joy  for  you 
before  you  go.  This  you  see" — he  took  Diane  in  his 
arms  and  she  gave  a  stifled  cry  of  pain :  Simon  laughed 
— "this  pretty  thing,  my  hero,  you  leave  to  me."  He 


68  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

drew  Diane,  shuddering,  against  him,  and  looked,  with 
greedy  eyes,  to  see  Bonaparte  in  torment. 

Bonaparte  was  entirely  calm.  "You  bore  me,  my 
friend,"  said  he. 

Simon  glared,  Simon  snarled  something  inarticulate, 
and  his  arms  fell  loose  about  Diane. 

The  girl  started  away.  "Let  him  go;  oh,  in  God's 
name,  let  him  go !"  she  cried,  loathing  them  both. 

"Do  you  like  leaving  her  to  me,  my  hero?  Then 
you  are  the  least  of  a  man  that  ever  I  knew.  But 
I  like  keeping  you  alive.  By  the  basket,  I  like  keeping 
you  alive!  You  are  so  nasty  a  creature.  And  if  you 
are  alive,  she  will  come  to  hate  you."  He  turned  a 
moment  on  Diane  with  a  devilish  grin.  "Yes,  it  must 
hurt  her  to  hate  you.  Come!"  He  thrust  Bonaparte 
out  of  the  room  before  him. 

Diane  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  Some  strange, 
amazing  joy  stole  upon  her.  .  .  .  She  had  broken 
bonds  that  galled  her.  She  was  Bonaparte's  slave  no 
more.  There  was  shame,  yes,  there  was  agony  to  come, 
but  now  at  last  her  soul  was  free.  .  .  .  Denis!  The 
name  stared  at  her  from  a  list  pinned  on  the  wall. 
"Denis  Sirac,  Cell  22."  Denis,  who  was  going  to  death, 
brave  and  faithful  and  kind!  .  .  . 

She  heard  the  door  clang  below  and  Bonaparte's 
footsteps  rang  fast  in  the  street — so  fast.  He  was 
in  a  hurry,  that  M.  Bonaparte.  He  was  saved — he, 
the  selfish  coward.  And  Denis — Denis — ah,  there  on 
the  table  lay  his  doom,  the  long  paper  written  in  red: 
"Batch  for  To-morrow."  With  eyes  of  horror,  trem- 
bling yet  fascinated,  she  looked  down  the  names. 
Bonaparte — yes,  oh,  yes.  .  .  .  Sirac?  There  was  no 
Sirac ! 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  69 

Simon  came  back.  Fierce  as  a  mother  robbed  of  her 
child,  she  sprang  to  him,  flung  out  an  accusing  arm 
at  him.  "You !  You  said  Denis  de  Sirac  was  to  die — 
but  his  name  is  not  there !" 

Simon  laughed.  "I  thought  that  would  please  you. 
You  see,  my  pretty,  there  are  twenty  ordered  for  the 
guillotine,  and  Sanson  will  not  take  less  than  twenty. 
So  if  I  let  one  go  I  must  needs  put  one  in.  And,  by 
the  basket,  if  I  save  one  lover  of  yours  I  hold  it  fair 
to  kill  the  other."  He  laughed  again.  "So  come,  my 
pretty,  a  kiss  for  my  pains." 

She  flung  him  off  so  fiercely  that  he  went  reeling 
to  the  corner  of  the  room.  Then,  panting  and  dis- 
traught, she  looked  all  about  her.  Denis  was  to  die. 
She  must  die  too.  There  must  be  some  way  .  .  .  some 
way  .  .  .  some  way.  On  the  table  lay  a  stretch  of 
whipcord.  She  caught  it  up  and  cast  it  about  her  neck 
and  was  drawing  it  tight  when  Simon  flung  himself 
upon  her  and  gripped  her  mad  hands.  .  .  .  Locked 
together — she  was  near  as  strong  as  he — they  swayed, 
struggling  fiercely,  long  moments.  .  .  .  She  weakened. 
.  .  .  Simon  forced  her  fingers  open,  tore  the  cord  away, 
and  sprang  back  with  it. 

"No,  my  pretty,  you  do  not  die  yet!"  he  snarled, 
panting,  and  thrust  the  cord  into  his  pocket.  "Now!" 
he  said,  and  came  to  her  again. 

There  was  a  loud  knocking  below.  Simon,  turning 
with  a  mutter  of  amazement,  put  his  head  out  of  the 
window  and  saw,  through  the  gloom,  a  tricolour  cloak. 
He  went  out  in  a  hurry,  locking  the  door  upon 
her. 

Diane  cowered  against  the  wall,  quivering,  moan- 
ing ...  God  knows  what  misery  was  hers.  .  .  . 


70  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

Faintly  from  the  prison  came  the  turnkeys'  drunken, 
uproarious  chorus: 

C'est  un  coup  que  Von  recoit 

Avant  qu'on  s'en  doute, 
A  peine  qu'on  s'en  apercoit 

Car  on  n'y  voit  goutte: 
Un  certain  ressort  cache 
Tout  a  coup  etant  Idche 

Fait  tomber — ber — ber 

Louder  the  sound  rose  through  the  opening  door. 
Captain  Bonaparte  came  in. 

I  like  to  think  of  Bonaparte's  work  that  night,  if 
only  for  Simon's  sake.  Bonaparte  had  hurried  away, 
and  you  fancy  Simon  sneering  at  the  little  beast's  fond- 
ness for  his  own  skin.  Bonaparte  was  thinking  wholly 
of  Simon's.  That  Diane  should  be  in  no  better  arms 
than  Simon's  displeased  him  like  a  loaf  in  the  gutter. 
He  had,  indeed,  no  throb  of  emotion  for  her,  no  pang 
at  her  fate.  But  Simon  offended  his  brain.  And  his 
brain  proceeded  to  deal  with  Simon. 

Once  across  the  Pont  Neuf  he  turned  into  the  first 
mercer's  shop  and  bought  him  a  tricolour  cloak.  Then 
he  sought  the  nearest  cuttler's  and  bought  a  sheath- 
knife.  And  then  he  was  back  again  and  knocking 
at  the  door  of  Simon's  quarters.  It  is  like  one 
of  his  campaigns — to  dare  everything,  confident 
because  no  one  could  dream  a  man  would  dare  so 
much. 

Simon  opened  the  door  and  a  figure  muffled  in  a 
tricolour  cloak  stalked  in.  It  spoke  hoarsely:  "In 
the  name  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety.  From  the 
Citizen  Robespierre.  Secret."  Simon  shut  the  door 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  71 

hastily.  And  Bonaparte  stabbed  through  his  left  eye 
to  the  brain. 

Simon  gaped,  and  his  knees  opened,  and  he  slid  to 
the  ground.  Bonaparte's  hands  were  in  his  pockets  as 
soon,  and  had  the  keys  out.  Bonaparte  strode  over 
him  upstairs. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  have  the  honour  to  offer  you  my 
arm,"  said  Bonaparte,  coolly.  But  Diane  shrank  wildly 
away.  "Come:  that  gentleman  is  dead,  and  the  doon 
open  to  us." 

She  hardly  understood.  "Denis,"  she  moaned — 
"Denis." 

"Oh,  Denis  !"  Bonaparte  shrugged.  "After  all,  mad- 
emoiselle, you  come  before  him,  and  so  do  I." 

"You  coward!"  she  cried.  "He  is  to  die  for  you." 
She  waved  that  red  list  of  the  doomed  before  Bona- 
parte's eyes;  in  a  maze  of  muddled,  angry  words  she 
made  out  the  story. 

Bonaparte  shrugged  again.  "It  is  unfortunate  for 
Denis." 

"Oh,  you  are  vile  and  base!"  she  cried.  "Go,  then, 
go!"  She  ran  past  him,  away,  not  to  freedom  but  to 
the  prison. 

Bonaparte,  looking  down  from  the  stairhead,  saw 
her  stopped  by  the  locked  double  doors.  He  came  down 
at  his  leisure  with  Simon's  keys. 

"It  appears  that  I  do  not  suffice  you,  mademoiselle," 
he  said. 

"You!"  she  gasped:    "I  loathe  you!     I  hate  you." 

"Your  affections  are  mutable.  But  there  is  no 
occasion  for  such  emotion.  Do  you  know  his  cell?" 

"Yes,  yes !" 

"Then" — noiselessly  he  unlocked  the  doors,  and  the 


72  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

din  of  the  carousing  turnkeys  came  louder — "then  why 
not  let  him  out?"  Diane  sped  away.  Bonaparte 
stayed  by  the  doors,  ready  to  slam  them  and  save  him- 
self on  the  first  alarm.  He  had  risked,  he  conceived, 
enough. 

But  Diane  had  sped,  light  foot,  to  the  cell  and 
stealthily  drawn  the  bolts.  "Denis !"  she  whispered, 
through  the  dark,  "Denis,  come!  Hush,  oh,  hush! 
Come,  silent."  And  Denis,  but  half  sure  of  the  truth, 
half  thinking  it  a  dream,  followed  swift  as  she.  It 
was  enough  that  Diane  bade  him. 

They  were  scarce  through  the  double  doors  ere 
Bonaparte  had  them  shut  and  looked  again.  "My 
felicitations,  Denis,"  said  Bonaparte. 

"You!"  gasped  Denis.  "It  was  you!  By  heaven, 
you  are  more  than  man !" 

"Ah,  do  not  thank  him!"  Diane  cried. 

"It  appears,"  said  Bonaparte  over  his  shoulder,  as 
he  led  upstairs — "it  appears  that  mademoiselle  has 
again  transferred  her  affections,  Denis.  However,  they 
have  served  my  turn,  and  I  am  grateful.  She  seems 
incapable  of  that." 

Denis — do  you  wonder  the  man  was  dazed? — Denis 
stared  up  at  him,  then  down  at  Diane.  And  Diane 
clung  to  him  close,  murmuring:  "Ah,  Denis,  Denis,  be 
kind;  please  be  kind." 

Bonaparte  was  trying  the  keys  on  all  Simon's  locked 
boxes  and  drawers.  "This  is  the  kind  of  person  who 
should  have  some  money  somewhere,"  said  he,  and  he 
found  it  soon — neat  bags  of  gold  (Simon  had  always 
been  neat),  with  a  warrant  or  two  from  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety.  Bonaparte  pouched  the  whole.  "And 
now,  mademoiselle,"  says  he,  "I  can  bear  you  to  hate 


HOW  HE  CHOSE  LIFE  73 

me,  and  I  will  allow  you  to  make  Denis  do  the  like,  but 
I  think  if  life  with  him  is  more  attractive  than  death 
you  had  better  confide  yourselves  to  me  a  while  longer." 
He  laughed  at  them,  at  Denis's  utter  amazement,  at 
Diane's  frightened  hate,  and  led  the  way  out.  In 
a  moment  more  they  were  past  Simon's  dead  body,  out 
in  the  clean  night  air. 

Then  you  see  Bonaparte  leading  the  way  to  a  post- 
ing-station, and,  brave  in  his  tricolour  coat  and  flour- 
ishing warrants  in  Robespierre's  name,  demand  a 
chaise-and-four  for  the  Normandy  road.  Since  they 
would  be  expected  to  fly  north  or  east,  he  chose  to  fly 
west.  Then,  as  they  sped  through  the  sleeping  town, 
he  told,  with  curt  sarcasm,  his  story.  You  see  that 
strange  little  company  in  the  swaying  chaise,  Bona- 
parte talking  calmly,  Denis  breaking  in  with  exclama- 
tions of  disgust  and  wonder,  and  Diane  away  in  the 
corner,  still  and  silent,  clinging  close  to  Denis's  arm. 

And  when  all  was  told  there  was  silence  a  while. 

"You  are  not  like  a  man,"  said  Denis  slowly. 
"You  are  more  than  man,  and  less."  Bonaparte 
laughed. 

Then  Diane,  clinging  close  to  Denis's  arm,  mur- 
mured: "Denis,  Denis,  you  do  forgive  me?" 

"My  dear!"  said  Denis,  with  something  like  a  sob, 
and  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"I  fear  my  presence  embarrasses,"  said  Bonaparte. 
"It  shall  leave  you  as  soon  as  may  be."  And  at 
Pontoise,  in  the  grey  dawn,  he  put  some  of  Simon's 
money  in  their  hands  and  bade  them  good-bye." 

"For  children,"  he  said,  "deserve  to  be  happy." 

"And  you,"  said  Denis,  "we  shall  pray  for  you  to 
be  happy  too." 


74  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Bonaparte  laughed.  I  suppose  he  never  understood 
what  he  had  lost. 

So  there  at  Pontoise  he  parted  from  them  and  struck 
away  south.  They  were  to  have  the  honour  of  draw- 
ing the  pursuit  while  he  won  safe  away.  He  was  always 
thoughtful. 

But  the  truth  is  that  pursuit  never  came  near,  and 
Diane  slept  happy,  with  Denis's  arm  about  her,  while 
they  sped  on  to  the  Normandy  coast,  happy  in  a  love 
that  was  freedom.  .  .  . 

If  you  go  to  a  certain  Dorsetshire  town  you  may 
find  a  Denis  Sirac  still.  He  makes  very  good  saddles. 


CHAPTER  HI 


BUT  it  was  not  all  France  that  loved  the  Revolution. 
There  were  doubts  in  the  south  and  most  doubts  in 
Toulon  town. 

Toulon  town  had  dared  the  unpardonable — had 
dared  dislike  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity.  Tou- 
lon had  denied  the  rule  of  the  Terror,  and  hauled  the 
tricolour  down  and  raised  the  white  flag  of  old  France, 
and  called  England  in  aid.  And  England  answered 
with  my  Lord  Hood's  fleet,  while  the  angry  armies  of 
the  sans-culottes  gathered  and  closed. 

In  the  rock-girt  harbour  of  Toulon  my  Lord  Hood's 
fleet  lay  at  anchor.  Gangways  were  down,  booms  out, 
a  hundred  boats  moving  across  the  green  water.  My 
Lord  Hood's  fleet  was  much  at  its  ease;  and  Toulon 
town  no  less.  Comfortable  citizens  and  their  women 
made  the  promenade  on  the  quay,  and  gazed  and 
grinned  at  the  grinning  English  sailors.  In  the  white 
lanes  that  led  up  from  the  water-side  French  lads  and 
English  linked  arms,  and  rolled  along  singing  their 
several  songs.  Now  and  then  a  puff  of  smoke  and  a 
dull  roar  from  the  black  hills  above  the  town  told  that 
Toulon  was  besieged;  but  nothing  was  hurt  and  none 
heeded. 

My  Lord  Hood,  vice-admiral  of  the  blue,  paced  the 
quarter-deck  of  the  Victory.  He  was  regarding  with 
mild  surprise  a  midshipman  who  presumed  to  engage 


76  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

the  attention  of  his  flag-captain.  The  midshipman 
was  some  time  in  concluding  the  conversation  to  his 
satisfaction.  At  last  he  saluted,  smiling,  and  smiling, 
turned,  went  down  the  gangway  like  a  falling  star,  and 
hailed  a  shore-boat.  The  flag-captain,  rubbing  a 
humorous  chin,  approached  his  admiral. 

"What's  Mr.  Waring's  scrape  now?"  my  Lord  Hood 
inquired. 

"Mr.  Waring  wanted  to  show  me  how  well  he  spoke 
French,  sir." 

"I  don't  think  a  midshipman  ought  to  know  French," 
said  my  Lord  Hood. 

"It's  unlike  a  midshipman  to  know  anything,"  Cap- 
tain Carew  admitted. 

"Except  devilry,"  said  my  Lord  Hood,  "and  French 
is  the  same  thing.  Well,  Carew,  and  what  does  he 
want  to  do  with  his  French?" 

"He  wanted  shore  leave  for  it,  sir.  Mr.  Waring 
wished  to  point  out  that  it  does  these  French  folks 
good  to  hear  him  talk  French.  He  shows  them  what 
the  language  can  be." 

"Mr.  Waring,"  said  my  Lord  Hope,  "is  the  most 
impudent  dog  in  the  service." 

"I've  observed  that  you  have  a  kindness  for  him,  sir," 
said  Captain  Carew. 

My  Lord  Hood  frowned  at  his  flag-captain,  then 
permitted  himself  to  chuckle.  They  paced  the  deck 
together,  watching  the  desultory  firing,  the  infrequent 
smoke-clouds  from  the  hills  by  Ollioules. 

"Those  fellows  do  so  damned  little,"  said  my  Lord 
Hood, "that  I  should  like  to  knowwhat  they  are  doing." 

But  there  was  no  immediate  need  for  my  Lord 
Hood's  interest.  The  sans-culottes  were,  doing  nothing. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN          77 

Thirty  thousand  of  them  were  in  camp  upon  the 
hills,  with  General  Cartaux  in  command,  and  three 
members  of  parliament  to  command  General  Cartaux. 
It  is  possible  that  they  might  have  done  something  if 
any  one  had  known  how  to  do  it.  This  Cartaux,  he 
had  been  a  painter  before  he  set  up  as  general,  and 
he  designed  himself  a  most  beautiful  uniform.  With 
that  his  military  genius  concluded.  The  military 
genius  of  the  members  of  parliament  seems  never  to 
have  been  born ;  but  one  of  them  had  luck.  M.  Sali- 
cetti,  a  Corsican,  was  known  to  a  certain  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  captain  of  artillery,  unattached.  On  a 
wintry  night  that  "thin,  sallow,  threadbare  figure" 
tramped  through  the  mud  into  camp.  All  his  baggage 
was  on  his  servant's  back.  He  sought  out  M.  Salicetti. 
He  requested  a  command  in  the  artillery.  It  is  possible 
that  M.  Salicetti  had  a  suspicion  the  artillery  needed 
commanding.  Certainly,  Corsican  had  always  a  human 
weakness  for  Corsican.  M.  Salicetti  signed  a  brevet 
of  chief  of  battalion. 

It  was  Bonaparte's  first  command  in  war.  His  life 
had  begun. 

Armed  with  his  brevet,  Bonaparte  presented  himself 
in  the  morning  to  General  Cartaux.  General  Cartaux, 
whose  artistic  uniform  was  gold  lace  from  chin  to  heel, 
sniffed  at  his  new  threadbare  officer.  "Who  are  you?" 
he  inquired. 

"A  man  who  knows  his  trade,"  said  Bonaparte. 

General  Cartaux,  who  had  never  seen  the  use  of  that, 
sniffed  again.  He  arose,  towering  a  foot  above  Bona- 
parte's large  head,  and  surveyed  the  brief  artilleryman 
with  contempt.  "It  is  I  who  place  my  batteries,"  he 
announced. 


78  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"I  imagine  the  terror  of  the  enemy,"  said  Bona- 
parte. 

General  Cartaux,  who  had  no  brain  for  sarcasm,  was 
gratified.  "You  may  come  the  rounds  with  me,"  he 
conceded. 

"It  will  be  an  education,  my  general,"  said  Bona- 
parte with  enthusiasm. 

In  the  midst  of  a  dishevelled  vineyard  they  came 
upon  a  two  score  guns  in  wild  disorder,  and  the  most 
leisurely  of  fatigue-parties  digging  an  amorphous 
earthwork.  General  Cartaux  extended  an  eloquent 
arm.  "There,  my  chief  of  battalion.  Behold  my  new 
main  battery.  My  own  design.  My  own  position.  It 
shall  bombard  the  aristocrats  of  Toulon  with  red-hot 
balls." 

Bonaparte  looked  from  the  disorderly  guns  to  the 
distant  town.  "I  think  the  balls  will  be  very  cold 
before  they  get  to  the  aristocrats,"  said  he. 

The  magnificent  Cartaux  rebuked  and  abused  him. 

"Certainly,  my  general,"  said  Bonaparte;  "and  the 
battery  would  be  an  excellent  battery  if  it  were  within 
range  of  the  enemy." 

"Not  within  range,  sir?"  Cartaux  cried.  "Here  you, 
sergeant.  Turn  that  gun  on  the  town  and  fire !  Mark 
now!" 

The  gun  was  trained,  and  laid,  and  fired.  General 
Cartaux  gazed  intent  at  the  town  ramparts  to  see  his 
shot  work  ruin.  Bonaparte  directed  his  attention  to 
things  more  adjacent — showed  him  the  shot  richochet- 
ing  through  olive  groves  and  bury  itself  in  a  haystack. 

"In  fact,  that  bullet  will  be  very  cold  before  it  gets 
to  Toulon,"  said  Bonaparte.  General  Cartaux  had 
been  three  hundred  yards  too  sanguine. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  79 

"Some  cursed  aristocrats  have  adulterated  the  pow- 
der," growled  General  Cartaux. 

Bonaparte  turned  away  with  a  shrug.  General 
Cartaux,  continuing  the  rounds  past  other  remarkable 
batteries,  did  not  again  consult  him. 

Coming  back  to  Ollioules,  Bonaparte  found  that  his 
excellent  devoted  friend  and  servant,  Jean  Dortan,  had 
already  put  him  up  a  hut. 

"You  are  a  relief  to  the  monotony,  Jean,"  said  he. 
"You  do  something.  But  I  fear  it  will  make  you 
unpopular." 

Jean  laughed.  "He  does  not  please  you  then,  this 
general?" 

"I  think  the  aristocrats  have  adulterated  his  brains." 

Jean  Dortan  grinned  sagaciously  at  Bonaparte. 
"A  la  bonne  heure,"  said  he. 

Bonaparte  sat  himself  down  on  a  mound  of  dried 
turves  and  there,  huddled  together,  elbows  on  knees,  his 
great  chin  in  his  hands,  he  stared  out  through  the  win- 
try sunlight  to  Toulon  town  and  the  harbour  and  the 
English  ships.  .  .  .  The  ships !  They  were  the  strate- 
gist's aim.  Drive  the  ships  away  and  Toulon  was  left 
helpless.  With  the  ships  went  her  fighting  men  and 
her  powder  and  her  food.  Bonaparte  turned  his  keen 
eyes  to  the  south,  where  the  hill  of  Bregaillon  rose  and 
the  rocky  headland  of  L'Eguillette  ran  out  black  into 
the  harbour.  An  English  redoubt  crowned  the  crest. 
Who  held  the  hills  by  L'Eguillette  held  the  harbour, 
held  Toulon.  My  Lord  Hood  had  seen  that;  Bona- 
parte saw  it  too. 

Now  Bonaparte  knew  how  to  deal  with  most  men, 
even  members  of  parliament.  He  went  off  to  M.  Sali- 
cetti  and  suggested  a  council  of  war.  M.  Salicetti  had 


80  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

a  proper  member  of  parliament's  affection  for  councils 
and  committees.  He  agreed  with  enthusiasm.  They 
had  not  had  a  council  for  near  twenty-four  hours.  So 
you  see  them  met  in  a  farmhouse  kitchen,  the  members 
of  parliament,  Salicetti  and  Gasparin  and  Barras,  pre- 
siding over  General  Cartaux  and  his  officers.  M.  Sali- 
cetti made  a  considerable  speech  upon  Liberty,  Equali- 
ty, Fraternity,  the  honour  of  dying  for  one's  country, 
and  Marcus  Junius  Brutus,  which  he  concluded  appro- 
priately by  asking  General  Cartaux  to  expound  his 
plans.  General  Cartaux,  who  had  been  expounding  his 
plans  once  a  day  for  a  week  or  two,  was  naturally 
rather  tired  of  them. 

"Citizen  representatives!"  he  cried,  magnificent,  "I 
shall  bombard  Toulon  for  seven  days.  Thereafter 
I  shall  attack  it  in  three  columns.  I  shall  take  it.  I 
shall  root  it  out  and  water  its  soil  with  the  blood  of 
aristocrats.  Delenda  est  Carthago!  Cartaux  has 
spoken !" 

The  citizen  representatives  were  applauding  when 
Bonaparte  rose  from  his  place  and  walked  to  the  table, 
where  a  map  was  spread  out.  He  put  his  finger  on  the 
hills  by  L'Eguillette.  "There  is  Toulon !"  said  he. 

General  Cartaux  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The  in- 
telligence of  General  Cartaux  perceived  that  his  artil- 
lery officer  said  Toulon  was  where  Toulon  was  not.  "It 
seems  that  our  Captain  Cannon  is  not  very  good  at 
geography,"  said  he. 

But  the  citizen  representatives  were  capable  of  see- 
ing that  Bonaparte  might  mean  something.  It  was 
Barras  who  asked,  "What  does  the  artilleryman  pro- 
pose?" 

"Who  holds  Bregaillon  and  L'Eguillette  holds  Tou- 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  81 

Ion.  Citizen  representatives,  permit  me  to  build  bat- 
teries upon  Bregaillon.  I  will  promise  that  they  shall 
hit  something,  which —  "  a  cold  grey  eye  pierced  Gen- 
eral Cartaux — "which  will  be  a  novelty.  And  I  answer 
for  my  success  with  my  head." 

"It  is  no  great  wager,"  sneered  Cartaux. 

But  the  citizen  representatives,  having  considered 
Bonaparte's  head,  thought  there  might  be  something 
in  it,  and  proceeded  to  questions.  Whereupon  Bona- 
parte overwhelmed  them  with  an  infinity  of  detail,  which 
was  the  more  impressive  since  no  one  understood  it. 
The  end  was  that  they  bade  him  build  his  batteries. 

"Citizen  representatives,  I  thank  you!"  cried  Bona- 
parte. "I  am  but  a  poor  man  who  loves  France,  whose 
trade  is  to  serve  France.  You  and  the  world  shall  see 
how." 

That  night  Bonaparte  began  to  build  emplacements 
over  against  L'Eguillette ;  and  General  Cartaux,  weav- 
ing witticisms  about  Captain  Cannon's  cannon,  made 
his  work  as  difficult  as  possible.  It  was  unwise  of  Car- 
taux, for  he  nourished  Bonaparte's  conviction  that  he 
was  a  superfluity  into  an  intention  of  abolishing  him. 

So  suddenly  there  began  to  be  cause  for  my  Lord 
Hood's  interest  in  what  the  sans-culottes  were  doing. 
It  was  a  question  which  engaged  the  attention  of 
another  distinguished  naval  officer — Mr.  Midshipman 
Waring.  Mr.  Waring  always  wanted  to  know  what 
other  people  were  doing.  He  did  not  confine  his  affec- 
tions to  sans-culottes.  That  is  why  you  see  him  at  the 
door  of  a  neat  house  in  Toulon  inquiring  for  Madame 
Florian. 

Mr.  Waring  is  admitted  to  Madame  Florian's  white 
drawing-room.  He  marches  straight  to  a  mirror  and 


82  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

surveys  himself  with  bland  approval.  The  mirror 
shows  him  a  slight,  lithe  lad  with  a  face  of  delicate 
innocence,  all  rose  pink  and  pearl  white,  and  dark 
blue  eyes  not  innocent  at  all.  Mr.  Waring's  admira- 
tion of  himself  was  interrupted  by  gay  laughter. 

Mr.  Waring,  quite  unabashed,  turned  to  bow  to 
Mademoiselle  Florian.  "I  think  I  am  rather  good  to 
look  at,"  said  he.  "Don't  you?" 

Mademoiselle  Florian's  eyes  were  directed  demurely 
to  the  ground.  "It  would  be  very  wrong  of  me  to  see 
any  of  you,  monsieur,"  said  she,  "for  madame  my 
mother  is  out." 

Mr.  Waring  came  to  her  and  took  her  hand.  She 
persisted  in  seeing  nothing  of  him.  "It  could  hardly 
be  wrong  for  you  to  see  yourself,"  he  suggested. 

"I  should  certainly  see  some  one  more  beautiful," 
said  Mademoiselle  Florian. 

"If  less  modest,"  said  Mr.  Waring,  and  led  her  to 
the  mirror. 

Mademoiselle  Florian  saw  a  boylike  maiden  form 
crowned  by  a  face  of  ivory,  full  but  fine-wrought,  and 
glossy  black  hair.  The  red  bow  of  her  lips  trembled 
daintily,  her  golden  eyes  sparkled  back  at  her.  Mr. 
Waring  took  ground  in  her  direction.  His  innocence 
appeared  in  the  mirror  at  her  side. 

"To  see  you  would  be  bad  manners,"  said  Mad- 
emoiselle Florian,  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"Politeness,"  said  Mr.  Waring,  "is  all  I  ask";  and 
he  kissed  her. 

Mademoiselle  Florian  immediately  saw  him.  She 
started  out  of  his  arms,  wide-eyed,  blushing  delectably, 
her  lips  struggling  with  laughter.  "But  this  isn't 
polite,"  Mr.  Waring  complained. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  83 

"You  are  the  most  impudently  surprising  person  in 
the  world !"  cried  Mademoiselle  Florian. 

"That's  why  you  like  me,  Madeleine,"  Mr.  Waring 
informed  her. 

"Madeleine?"  Mademoiselle  Florian  repeated  coldly, 
and  rose  to  her  full  height,  which  was  a  trifle  more 
than  Mr.  Waring's.  "Sir,  my  name  is  not  for 
you." 

"No,  mine  will  be  for  you,  Madeleine,"  Mr.  Waring 
agreed  cheerfully. 

"If  I  believed,"  said  Mademoiselle  Florian,  "I  should 
tremble." 

"That  is  what  the  devil  does,"  Mr.  Waring  reminded 
her.  "But  you're  quite  of  this  world,  dear" — he  pos- 
sessed himself  of  her  hands — "and,  egad,  I  want  you 
in  it." 

"I  confess,  sir,  I  am  glad  you  are  not  out  of  it," 
said  Mademoiselle  Florian.  "Oh,  without  you  it  would 
be  much  less  ridiculous." 

"I'm  glad  I  know  what  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Waring, 
and  drew  her  against  him  swiftly,  and  slipping  an  arm 
about  her,  held  her  on  his  breast  an  instant,  till  she 
forced  herself  away. 

"You  are  tedious,  sir,"  she  said  frowning. 

It  is  possible  that  Mr.  Waring  would  have  continued 
to  be  tedious,  but  General  Cartaux  chose  that  moment 
to  justify  the  existence  of  his  remarkable  batteries  by 
firing  a  salvo.  The  roar  was  loud.  Mr.  Waring 
resigned  Mademoiselle  Florian  to  walk  to  the  window 
and  see  if,  contrary  to  custom,  anything  had  happened. 
He  looked  out  over  the  town  and  saw  no  sign  of  shot 
or  shell  nor  any  commotion.  He  turned  with  a  pucker 
on  his  angelic  white  brow. 


84  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Yes,  I  would  give  something  to  know  what  those 
fellows  are  doing,"  he  observed. 

Mademoiselle  Florian  presented  to  him  her  back. 

"You  know,  they  are  playing  such  fool's  tricks  that 
they  must  have  something  to  spring  on  us,"  Mr.  War- 
ing explained. 

Mademoiselle  Florian  still  presented  her  back.  She 
appeared  to  find  Mr.  Waring's  new  conversation  more 
tedious  than  his  old.  Mr.  Waring  stuck  cheerfully  to 
the  new. 

"I'll  have  to  go  and  call  on  the  beggars,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  must  take  care  of  my  Uncle  Sammy."  In 
so  disrespectful  a  way  was  the  gunroom  wont  to  speak 
of  my  Lord  Hood.  "Yes,  I  think  Mr.  Waring  must 
take  snuff  with  the  sans-culottes"  Mr.  Waring  con- 
cluded with  a  grin. 

Mademoiselle  Florian  turned,  stately,  and  from  the 
superior  elevation  of  her  seventeen  years,  five  feet  and  six 
inches,  looked  down  upon  Mr.  Waring's  nineteen  years, 
five  feet  five.  "You  are  so  childish,"  she  complained. 

"Men  are,"  said  Mr.  Waring.  "That's  why  women 
like  'em." 

Mademoiselle  Florian's  stateliness  passed  into  dim- 
ples. "Oh,  you  can't,"  she  gurgled  somewhat  obscurely ; 
"you  can't.  Oh,  but  I  suppose  you  do." 

"I  can  do  most  things,"  Mr.  Waring  blandly  assured 
her. 

"But  you  can't  possibly  think  you're  a  man." 

"I  can  make  you  glad  that  I  am "  Mr.  Waring 

proposed  to  embrace  her. 

Mademoiselle  Florian  retired  swiftly.  "I  shall  cer- 
tainly be  glad  to  see  you  grow  up,"  she  confessed,  with 
malicious  mirthful  eyes;  "but  I  doubt  if  you'll  grow 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  85 

up  a  man."  She  started  forward  and  swung  Mr. 
Waring  round  to  the  mirror.  "You  see,  you  are  so 
like  a  girl." 

.Mr.  Waring's  delicate  face  of  rose  pink  and  pearl 
looked  out  of  the  mirror.  It  annoyed  Mademoiselle 
Florian  by  not  being  annoyed.  It  even  began  to  smile. 

"You  are  like  a  girl.  You  know  you  are  like  a  girl," 
she  cried  angrily. 

"I'm  sure  I  should  be  a  credit  to  either  sex,"  said 
Mr.  Waring,  and  patted  his  curly  brown  hair.  "And 
it  is  dull  to  belong  to  the  same  sex  always.  Have  you 
noticed  that,  Madeleine?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  my 
husband  part  of  the  time?" 

"Sir,"  said  Mademoiselle  Florian  through  dimples, 
"you  shall  be  a  sister  to  me." 

"I  do  everything  thoroughly,"  said  Mr.  Waring, 
and,  before  she  was  aware,  kissed  her  sisterly-wise  on 
both  cheeks  and  fled. 

In  the  hall  he  came  upon  Marie,  the  maid.  "Marie," 
said  Mr.  Waring,  "have  you  a  petticoat  to  sell?" 

"Heaven,  sir!"  Marie  gasped. 

"No,  Marie.  Not  heaven:  it  is  not  for  sale.  Not 
heaven.  There  are  doubtless  many  petticoats  there, 
but  I  want  one  on  earth."  He  was  preparing,  you 
see,  to  be  a  thorough  sister. 


The  morning  was  grey  over  the  dank  vineyards  of 
Bregaillon.  Like  ants  a  host  of  men  were  toiling  in 
the  hillside.  They  had  energy,  those  soldiers  of  Revolu- 
tion. Among  them,  ubiquitous,  vigilant,  moved  Bona- 
parte. His  clothes  were  stained  with  the  soil,  his  livid 
cheeks  bore  dark  furrows  beneath  the  eyes. 


86  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Aha,"  says  General  Cartaux,  approaching,  "our 
Captain  Cannon  has  a  dissipated  air.  Were  you  sober 
last  night,  my  Captain  Cannon?" 

Bonaparte  drew  himself  up  and  saluted.  "My  gen- 
eral," he  cried,  "I  was  drunk  with  love  of  my  country." 
That  was  aimed  at  the  great  heart  of  the  common 
soldier. 

It  hit  the  white.  Enthusiasm  murmured  through  the 
earthworks.  There  came  a  roar,  "Long  live  our  Cap- 
tain Cannon!" 

Bonaparte  improved  the  occasion.  "General!"  he 
cried,  "my  face  is  weary  because  I  have  not  slept ;  but 
my  soul  can  never  be  weary  working  for  France." 

Again  he  won  ardent  cries  from  the  digging  soldiers : 
"Our  Captain  Cannon !  Our  brave  little  Captain 
Cannon !" 

General  Cartaux  stalked  magnificent  over  the  sodden 
banks  of  earth.  "Look  you,  my  Captain  Cannon," 
said  he,  shaking  a  wise  head,  "I  do  not  approve  these 
batteries." 

"That  is  a  pity,  my  general,"  said  Bonaparte, 
drily. 

His  eyes  wandered  from  Cartaux  to  a  half-company 
beginning  a  new  abutment.  The  angle  did  not  please 
him.  He  shouted  a  sharp  order  and  gesticulated  vio- 
lently. 

There  was  a  trim  slip  of  a  peasant  girl  hawking 
raisins  among  the  men.  She  dared  to  laugh  at  him. 
Bonaparte's  eyes  dwelt  upon  her.  He  did  not  approve 
of  being  laughed  at. 

General  Cartaux  tugged  his  sleeve.  "Attend  to  me, 
Captain  Cannon.  I  do  not  understand  your  batteries. 
I  do  not  approve  them." 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  87 

"That  is  very  logical  of  you,  my  general." 

"They  are  hidden.  They  are  masked.  They  will 
not  be  able  to  fire." 

"Wait  and  see,  my  general." 

"I  say,  sir,"  cried  his  general,  irate,  "I  say  they  will 
not  be  able  to  fire.  I  say  it.  I,  Cartaux!" 

Bonaparte's  desire  to  abolish  the  General  Cartaux 
became  ardent.  His  eyes  fell  again  upon  that  peasant 
maid  who  was  selling  many  raisins;  she  was  a  pretty 
girl,  and  giving  many  smiles.  She  had  come  close  to 
them. 

"Now,  my  Captain  Cannon,"  Cartaux  continued  in 
masterful  tones,  "we  will  have  another  council  about 
this.  You  will  call  a  halt  here,  and " 

"Hush,  my  general,  hush !"  Bonaparte  laid  finger  on 
lip  and  nodded  mysteriously  towards  the  girl.  "She 
followed  you.  She  hangs  on  your  words.  I  misdoubt 
she  is  an  aristocrat  spy." 

General  Cartaux,  a  famous  admirer  of  women,  exam- 
ined her  critically.  Then,  magnificently  threatening, 
he  strode  up  to  her. 

Bonaparte  hurried  about  his  business.  The  obstruc- 
tions of  General  Cartaux  were  abolished  for  a  while; 
perhaps — already  a  scheme  was  conceived  in  the  Cor- 
sican  brain — perhaps  for  ever. 

By  the  time  General  Cartaux  arrived  at  the  peasant 
maid  her  back  was  turned  to  him;  she  was  entirely 
interested  in  selling  raisins. 

General  Cartaux  tapped  her  slim  shoulder.  "Look 
at  me,  girl,"  said  he. 

The  girl  started  round  in  violent  surprise,  showing 
him  a  fair,  innocent  face.  "Oh,  what  a  pretty  soldier !" 
she  cried.  Then  shyly  dropped  her  eyes.  "But  I  ought 


88  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

not  to  look  at  you,"  she  murmured,  and  modest  fingers 
fidgeted  with  her  skirt. 

General  Cartaux  threw  out  a  complacent  chest. 
"And  why  not,  lass?" 

"Because  you  prevent  me  thinking  of  raisins,  sir," 
said  the  girl  meekly. 

General  Cartaux  had  an  enviable  ability  for  con- 
struing all  remarks  as  flattery.  He  smirked.  "Follow 
me,  girl!"  said  he. 

"I  am  sure  so  fine  a  gentleman  can  do  me  no  ill," 
said  the  girl,  and  tripped  after  Cartaux's  strides. 

General  Cartaux  came  into  his  hut,  disposed  himself 
in  a  chair  of  comfort,  and  beckoned  the  girl.  She 
came  timidly,  with  downcast  eyes.  General  Cartaux 
put  a  finger  under  her  round,  white  chin,  and  tilted 
her  face  up. 

Dark  blue  eyes  laughed  at  him.  "I  like  my  face," 
she  said.  "Don't  you,  sir?" 

"What  is  more  to  the  point,  my  dear,"  said  General 
Cartaux,  "is,  do  you  like  mine?" 

"Oh,  I  would  not  presume,  sir,"  the  girl  cried. 

General  Cartaux  put  his  resplendent  arm  round  her. 
She  twisted  away  from  him,  skirts  flying  wide. 

"That  is  very  modest  and  becoming,  my  dear,"  said 
General  Cartaux.  "But  I  know  you  would  like  to  come 
back  to  it;"  and  he  held  out  the  arm  for  her.  He 
was,  as  they  say,  toujours  pret. 

The  girl  considered  him  with  her  head  on  one  side. 

"Come,  child,"  quoth  Cartaux,  "I  can  see  that  you 
like  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  like  you,"  said  the  girl  readily.  You 
remind  me  of  my  grandfathers." 

Cartaux    started   up   with   an   oath.      He   was   old 


Iii  the  Doorway  Stood  the  Citizen  Representative  Salicetti 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  89 

enough  to  be  very  touchy  about  his  youthful  beauty. 
"Do  not  mock  at  me,  girl!"  he  thundered.  "Do  not 
dare  play  with  me,  or  I  will  have  you  hanged  for  a 
spy" 

"A  spy?"  cried  the  girl  in  the  amazement  of  inno- 
cence? "I,  sir?  Oh,  heaven,  I  protest  I  am  only  poor 
Jeanne  Poisson  with  raisins  to  sell.  See,  such  fine 
raisins !"  She  put  her  basket  under  Cartaux's  nose. 
"And  you  may  have  one  to  taste." 

Cartaux  shook  his  finger  at  her.  "Look  you,  I  sus- 
pect you  are  a  spy." 

"Oh,  but  I  should  not  know  how,"  cried  the  girl 
reproachfully. 

Cartaux  took  her  basket  away,  caught  hold  of  her, 
and  drew  her  close.  "Now,  my  dear,  let  the  pretty  lips 
tell  the  truth.  Come!  There  was  never  a  woman  who 
would  not  tell  her  all  for  Cartaux's  kisses."  He  bent 
over  her.  She  objected  with  full  maidenly  vigour.  .  .  . 

"I  see  that  our  General  Cartaux  has  begun  a  new 
siege."  The  remark  came  from  the  doorway.  In  the 
doorway  stood  the  citizen  representative,  Salicetti. 

Cartaux  jumped  round.  Salicetti  beckoned  him  out. 
Cartaux  went  in  a  hurry,  calling  for  a  sentry  to  stand 
by  the  door  of  his  hut. 

The  girl,  left  alone,  sat  down  in  Cartaux's  comfort- 
able chair  and  emitted  a  hearty  oath.  Mr.  Midshipman 
Waring  had  that  deplorable  habit  in  moments  of  stress. 

In  the  appearance  of  Salicetti  you  have  to  admire 
Bonaparte's  strategy.  The  citizen  representative  had 
come  bustling  about  the  new  batteries,  and,  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind,  beset  Bonaparte  with  a  thousand 
futile  questions.  Bonaparte,  divining  a  way  to  get 
rid  of  him,  saw  how  that  way  could  assist  in  the  aboli- 


90  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

tion  of  General  Cartaux.  He  was  always  economical, 
M.  Bonaparte. 

It  had  ever  been  the  conviction  of  General  Cartaux 
that  the  garrison  of  Toulon  was  likely  to  make  a 
sally  toward  the  east.  Bonaparte,  who  knew  well  that 
an  eastward  sally  was  as  likely  as  a  midnight  sun,  told 
Salicetti  mysteriously  that  he  had  espied  through  his 
glass  strange  movements  to  eastward,  and  suggested 
that  Salicetti  should  go  with  General  Cartaux  to  the 
eastern  wing  and  reconnoitre.  The  citizen  representa- 
tive's genius,  he  pointed  out,  would  inform  Cartaux's 
professional  skill.  Salicetti  purred  assent.  He  would 
go — certainly  he  would  go.  Where  was  General  Car- 
taux? General  Cartaux,  Bonaparte  replied,  was  in  his 
hut  examining  a  spy,  but  Bonaparte  had  no  doubt  that 
the  spy's  examination  could  wait.  After  they  had  made 
reconnaissance  it  would  perhaps  be  well  to  lay  the 
results  before  a  council.  The  thought  of  a  council,  the 
prospect  of  making  a  speech,  set  the  citizen  representa- 
tive's zeal  aflame.  He  commended  Bonaparte's  sagacity 
with  exuberance  and  hurried  off  to  Cartaux. 

With  a  curious  mocking  smile  Bonaparte  turned 
again  to  his  batteries.  He  had  swept  the  camp  bare 
of  men,  and  the  host  that  toiled  in  the  rent  hillside 
throbbed  with  his  own  passionate  energy.  Cunningly 
masked  by  the  fall  of  the  ground  from  the  watchers  on 
the  English  redoubt  his  serried  works  grew.  The  good 
people  of  Toulon,  happily  ignorant  that  there  was  a 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  in  the  world,  were  giving  a  ball 
to  the  English  fleet. 

Captain  Carew  had  the  honour  to  dance  with  Mad- 
emoiselle Florian.  With  Mademoiselle  Florian,  a  lithe 
maiden  form  in  ungirt  robe  of  silver,  Captain  Carew 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  91 

paced  through  the  ante-rooms.  Captain  Carew  had 
been  fencing  for  compliments. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mademoiselle  Florian,  amid  dim- 
ples, "when  I  make  a  world  it  will  be  all  women.  But 
I  like  the  officers  of  your  navy  well.  They  are,  next 
to  women,  the  most  amiable  of  creatures.  There  are 
not  enough  of  you,  though,  and  some  have  played  us 
false  to-night." 

Captain  Carew  explained  that  some  miserable 
wretches  were  on  duty. 

"Oh,  duty !"  Mademoiselle  Florian  shrugged  her 
pleasing  shoulders  at  it.  "That  is  the  worst  of  being 
a  man.  He  always  has  duty.  There  is  a  M. — M. 
Waring,  I  think — my  mother  wishes  to  see.  Is  he  duti- 
ful, sir?" 

"Waring?"  Captain  Carew  frowned  officially.  "War- 
ing is  one  of  my  midshipmen.  He  has  been  missing  a 
day  and  a  half.  Some  portentous  scrape,  the  young 
rascal." 

Mademoiselle  Florian  dropped  Captain  Carew's  arm 
and  stood  very  straight  and  still,  her  golden  eyes  wide. 
She  remembered  suddenly  Mr.  Waring's  promise  to 
take  snuff  with  the  sans-culottes.  ...  It  was  not  a 
joke  then.  .  .  . 

"Missing?  Scrape?"  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice. 
"You  do  not  know  where  he  is?" 

"Lord,  not  I,"  said  the  flag-captain. 

Mademoiselle  Florian's  eyes  glowed  like  flame.  "Ah, 
you  do  not  know!"  she  cried  scornfully.  "You  send 
him  alone  against  that  army — a  boy  like  him — while 
all  you  men  are  playing.  Then  you  sneer  because 
he  is  taken.  Oh,  you  are  brave,  you  are  noble,  you 
are  manly!"  She  sped  away  in  a  whirl  of  rage. 


Captain  Carew,  wholly  amazed,  stared  after  her. 
"The  devil!"  he  remarked,  and  mopped  his  face. 

Captain  Nelson  of  the  Agamemnon  passed  by. 
"What,  Carew,  taken  aback?"  quoth  he  with  a  smile. 

"Egad,  I've  been  reprimanded  and  dismissed  my 
ship,"  said  Captain  Carew.  "And  hang  me  if  I  know 
what  for." 

Mademoiselle  Florian  had  left  the  ball  behind.  Mad- 
emoiselle Florian  had  hurried  home.  With  Mr.  War- 
ing in  the  bloody  hands  of  the  gans-culottes  it  was  neces- 
sary to  do  something  at  once.  I  know  she  did  not 
stop  to  think  if  she  loved  him,  or  how — perhaps  she  did 
not  understand  love  very  well,  that  child  of  seventeen ; 
but  she  yearned  to  help  him  as  a  mother  yearns  for 
her  son.  ...  I  fancy  her  standing  before  her  glass,  a 
slim  boyish  form.  She  knew  well  enough  what  a  woman 
must  dread  in  the  sans-culotte  army.  But  a  boy — a 
boy  might  dare. 


Although  there  was  nothing  to  see  on  the  eastern 
flank,  Cartaux  and  Salicetti  had  contrived  to  see  some- 
thing and  to  disagree  about  it  marvellously.  Cartaux, 
whose  temper  was  poor,  had,  in  fact,  become  very  curt 
to  the  citizen  representative,  and  rejected  gruffly  an 
invitation  to  discuss  the  matter  further  in  Salicetti's 
quarters.  "I  have  other  things  to  do  than  listen  to 
speeches,"  he  growled,  and  strode  off  to  his  own  hut. 

Salicetti  looked  sourly.  "That  wench  he  had,"  said 
he  to  himself,  and  sought  out  the  other  citizen  repre- 
sentatives to  summon  a  council. 

General  Cartaux,  who  had  every  intention  of  finding 
his  raisin  girl  more  amusing  than  the  citizen  repre- 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  93 

sentatives,  came  to  his  hut  and  blithely  bade  the  sentry 
stand  a  score  paces  off,  and  plunged  in. 

Now  the  raisin  girl — that  is  to  say,  Mr.  Midshipman 
Waring — at  first  tried  her  charms  upon  the  sentry, 
failed,  and  seeing  the  hopelessness  of  attempting  to  fight 
him,  went  philosophically  to  sleep  in  General  Cartaux's 
chair.  General  Cartaux  awoke  the  maid  with  a  kiss. 

"The  devil!"  she  cried,  starting  up.  General  Car- 
taux happily  had  no  English. 

General  Cartaux  laughed  and  rubbed  his  hands. 
"That  is  the  beginning  of  the  campaign,  my  dear," 
said  he. 

She  fled  round  the  table.  General  Cartaux  pursued 
her,  caught  her,  and  came  with  her  full  into  the  arms 
of  Salicetti's  clerk.  General  Cartaux  swore.  The  clerk 
grinned. 

"The  citizen  representatives  require  your  immediate 
presence  at  a  council,  General,"  said  he. 

General  Cartaux  consigned  him  and  the  citizen  rep- 
resentatives to  perdition,  cried,  "A  bientot,  then,  my 
dear,"  to  the  breathless  Mr.  Waring,  snatched  up  his 
hat,  and  strode  out.  He  forgot  to  tell  the  sentry  to 
close  on  the  hut  again. 

Which  was  observed  by  Bonaparte.  Bonaparte  had 
every  man  he  could  muster  to  work  on  Bregaillon  Hill, 
and  the  work  was  going  well.  Captain  Cannon,  with 
his  fiery  energy  and  his  theatricalities,  had  won  the 
heart  of  the  sans-culottes.  They  toiled  like  fiends. 
Bonaparte  could  spare  an  hour  for  the  abolition  of 
General  Cartaux.  As  the  shadows  darkened  on  that 
December  afternoon  he  loitered  about  the  empty  camp 
with  his  huge  servant,  Jean  Dortan. 

To  Jean  Dortan  he  confided  a  high  and  noble  pur- 


94  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

pose.  "I  am  minded  to  save  a  maid  from  a  beast, 
Jean,"  said  he,  in  the  tones  of  the  stage.  "That  Car- 
taux,  he  has  haled  away  a  poor  girl  to  his  hut,  charging 
her  as  a  spy.  Bah!  No  more  spy  than  you.  'Tis  a 
general  of  France  uses  his  power  to  ruin  her  maids. 
Help  me  then,  Jean !" 

"I  will  wring  his  neck,"  quoth  Jean,  "if  you  please." 

"First,  we  will  get  the  maid  away.  Then  I  will  break 
M.  Cartaux.  It  will  be  amusing.  Ah!"  He  recoiled 
with  Jean  into  black  shadow  as  Cartaux  bustled  out  after 
the  clerk.  "That  sentry !  can  you  stun  him  unseen,  Jean?" 

"Bagatelle,"  quoth  Jean  Dortan,  and  slid  off  noise- 
less in  the  gloom.  He  made  a  circuit;  he  approached 
the  sentry  from  behind,  struck  with  a  knife-hilt  upon 
his  temple,  caught  the  man  as  he  swayed,  and  laid  him, 
musket  and  all,  quietly  down.  Then  he  hurried  after 
Bonaparte  to  Cartaux's  hut. 

Bonaparte  had  come  full  upon  Mr.  Waring,  who, 
peering  to  see  where  the  sentry  was,  had  with  amaze- 
ment seen  him  stunned.  Bonaparte  caught  Mr.  War- 
ing's  feminine  arm.  "Child,  you  must  away,"  he  hissed. 
"Your  honour  is  in  dire  peril." 

"La,  indeed,  sir,  is  it?"  says  Mr.  Waring,  the  inno- 
cent maid. 

"Away,  away!"  Bonaparte  caught  up  a  cloak  of 
Cartaux's  and  muffled  her  in  it.  "Set  her  safe  beyond 
the  lines,  Jean.  Seek  your  home,  child.  God  knows 
what  hell  waits  you  here."  He  hurried  one  way  through 
the  empty  camp,  and  Jean  Dortan  whirled  Mr.  Waring 
another. 

They  went  at  a  speed  very  harassing  in  skirts.  At 
last,  on  the  lower  ground  far  beyond  the  huts,  Jean 
Dortan  gripped  Mr.  Waring's  hand  with  a  "Hie  away 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  95 

home,  lass.  God  give  you  ever  a  friend  in  trouble," 
and  hurried  back. 

Mr.  Waring  sat  down  plump  to  recover  his  breath 
and  laugh.  "Phew !  And  I  thought  I  was  mad  myself," 
said  he.  "But  this  is  God's  own  large  luck.  What  a 
sweet  girl  you  must  be,  Mr.  Waring!  And  how  do  the 
dear  creatures  live  in  petticoats  ?"  With  which  he  began 
to  struggle  out  of  them  and  stood  up  a  lad  again. 

Then,  eating  raisins,  he  thought  about  things.  If 
you  suppose  him  merely  thankful  to  be  out  of  trouble 
you  do  not  understand  Mr.  Midshipman  Waring.  He 
was  consumed  with  interest  in  what  he  had  seen  in  the 
morning,  those  new  vast  works  on  Bregaillon  Hill. 
He  wanted  to  see  more  of  them.  Instead  of  hurrying 
back  to  the  yearning  gunroom  of  H.M.S.  Victory, 
Mr.  Waring  went  into  a  haystack  and  there  slept  com- 
fortably as  a  mouse. 

The  council  of  war  was  met  in  the  farmhouse  kitchen. 
Salicetti  and  Cartaux  were  wrangling  over  the  sig- 
nificance of  what  they  had  not  seen  when  Bonaparte 
stalked  in  and  sat  himself  down  behind  Salicetti's  ear. 
The  whole  council  was  consumed  with  anxiety  to  know 
what  the  English  were  attempting  on  the  east.  Bona- 
parte, who  knew  well  that  they  could  do  nothing  at  all, 
joined  sagely  in  the  debate.  He  wished  to  point  out  to 
the  citizen  representatives  that  there  was  a  means  of 
knowing  the  English  plans.  He  had  caught  a  spy  that 
morning  and  handed  her  to  General  Cartaux.  She 

"Ah,  General  Cartaux's  spy !"  Salicetti  turned  upon 
Cartaux  a  vicious  smile.  "I  know  that  General  Cartaux 
has  examined  her." 

Cartaux  gave  out  some  oaths  and  protested  that  she 
was  only  a  fool  of  a  girl. 


96  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"The  chief  of  the  artillery  considered  her  a  spy.  I 
move  that  the  spy  come  before  us,"  said  Salicetti. 

The  prospect  of  trying  a  woman  was  attractive  to 
the  council.  Off  went  a  guard  to  Cartaux's  hut. 
They  returned  to  relate  that  spy  there  was  none,  but 
only  a  stunned  sentry. 

In  amazement  the  council  regarded  General  Cartaux, 
but  Salicetti  laughed.  "I  am  sure  she  paid  for  her 
freedom,  my  general,"  said  he. 

Cartaux  started  up,  purple  of  face,  to  demand  what 
he  meant. 

"Mean?  By  the  Republic,  I  mean  this,  that  when 
I  find  you  playing  with  a  she-spy  for  her  kisses  and 
that  she-spy  is  let  escape,  I  know  who  has  been  traitor 
to  France." 

Cartaux  roared  like  a  bull.  He  had  not  let  the  wench 
escape.  He  had  left  her  in  his  hut  with  a  sentry  over 
her.  Especially  and  particularly  it  was  to  be  under- 
stood that  he  was  in  no  way  a  traitor. 

Then  Gasparin,  who  seems  to  have  been  no  knave 
nor  wholly  a  fool,  took  the  word  and  desired  to  know 
why  General  Cartaux  had  kept  the  woman  in  his  hut 
instead  of  sending  her  to  the  provost-marshal. 

General  Cartaux  made  an  oration  dealing  with 
Fabius  and  Scipio  Africanus,  at  the  close  of  which  Sali- 
cetti produced  his  clerk  to  relate  that  he  had  found  Gen- 
eral Cartaux  with  the  woman  in  his  arms,  and  the 
sentry,  restored  to  animation,  told  that  General  Car- 
taux had  ordered  him  to  stand  forty  paces  off  the  hut. 

It  was  Barras,  the  impatient  Provencal,  who  broke 
out:  "Enough!  Enough!  We  are  not  imbecile,  if  he 
is  a  traitor !"  and  already  he  was  writing  the  arrete 
that  suspended  Cartaux  from  his  functions  and  "con- 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN  97 

signed  him  to  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety  at  Paris, 
under  good  and  sure  escort." 

The  citizen  representatives  signed  and  scaled,  while 
poor  Cartaux  bellowed  like  a  bull.  Bellowing  still,  he 
was  led  out  under  guard,  and  his  own  men  glared  and 
growled  at  him.  They  were  a  little  hysterical  about 
treachery,  the  sans-culottes. 

Bonaparte  had  abolished  his  general.  There  was  no 
man  over  him  now.  He  would  have  his  will.  To  him 
Toulon  would  fall.  He  knew  himself  fairly  upon  the 
path  to  glory  and  power.  He  stood  in  the  clear  night 
air  looking  up  at  the  stars,  white  points  of  light  in  a 
black  void.  He  smiled  at  the  universe.  In  the  face  of 
heaven  he  saw  himself  greater  than  man. 

Through  the  grey  of  the  morning  Mr.  Waring  came 
creeping  round  Bregaillon  Hill.  Already  the  sans- 
culottes were  at  toil.  Mr.  Waring  puckered  his  inno- 
cent brow  upon  the  sight.  Hidden  with  infinite  cunning 
from  the  gunners  in  the  English  redoubt,  batteries  were 
terraced  round  the  shoulder  of  the  hill.  They  domi- 
nated the  harbour.  And  amid  them  stood  furnaces  to 
heat  the  balls  red  hot,  and  already  the  guns  were  being 
hauled  to  position.  For  one  moment  Mr.  Waring  felt 
something  like  fear.  The  energy  that  had  wrought 
so  vastly  and  so  swiftly,  the  brain  that  had  planned 
the  craft  of  it  all,  held  him  in  amaze.  More  serious 
than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  he  went  stealthily  on. 
He  found  more  batteries,  and  still  more  batteries.  All 
the  hill  was  the  masked  home  of  death.  He  crept  about 
in  the  trenches  and  behind  abutments,  listening  to  the 
workers'  talk.  He  heard  his  friend  General  Cartaux 
abused,  and  chuckled.  With  peculiar  joy  he  learnt 
that  Cartaux  was  under  arrest  for  letting  him  escape. 


98  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Once  again  the  world  amused  him,  and  he  went  on  in 
midshipman's  spirits.  Till  suddenly  a  voice  thrilled 
through  him.  "Wouldn't  the  English  like  to  know 
what  you  are  doing?"  it  said,  and  it  gave  a  queer, 
nervous  laugh.  "I  suppose  none  of  them  dare  come 
and  see?" 

"Madeleine  Florian !"  Mr.  Waring,  peeping  over  the 
earthwork,  saw  that  full,  fine-wrought  face.  Madeleine 
Florian  as  a  boy!  Mr.  Waring  was  between  swear- 
ing and  laughing. 

The  sans-culotte  answer  came  with  a  hoarse  chuckle. 
"Faith,  my  brave,  we  eat  what  English  we  catch." 

"They — they  are  horrible,  aren't  they?"  (Mr.  War- 
ing caught  the  nervous  tremor  of  her  voice.)  "And 
have  you  caught  any  English,  then?" 

"Who  are  you  that  talks  of  English?"  came  sharply. 
Mr.  Waring  saw  again  that  little  man  of  the  huge, 
sallow  head — his  saviour.  Bonaparte  was  glowering 
at  Mademoiselle  Florian.  "Come  you  here.  Who  are 
you?" 

She  was  glib.  She  was  Jacques  Drac,  a  fisherman's 
son  of  La  Seyne,  who  had  come  to  see  the  soldiers  at 
work.  It  was  fine  to  see 

The  keen,  grey  eyes  cut  through  her.  "You  have 
too  much  to  say,  Jacques  Drac.  You " 

Mr.  Waring  dropped  over  the  earthwork.  He 
tapped  Bonaparte's  arm.  "Concerning  that  stunned 
sentry,"  said  he. 

Bonaparte's  sallow  face  darkened.  He  started  round 
upon  Mr.  Waring,  his  eyes  like  sparks  of  lightning. 
"Who  are  you,  rascal?"  he  growled. 

Mr.  Waring  grinned  amiably.  "Can't  you  guess?" 
said  he.  "Now  concerning  that  stunned  sentry " 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN          99 

Bonaparte  gripped  his  arm  (Mr.  Waring  bore  the 
mark  a  week)  and  hurried  him  off,  while  he  looked  back, 
and  smiling  at  Mademoiselle  Florian,  nodded  her  to 
follow.  So  the  three  drew  away  from  the  workers. 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  growled  Bonaparte. 

"I  only  want  to  say  good-bye,"  said  Mr.  Waring, 
jerked  himself  free,  took  Mademoiselle  Florian's  arm, 
and  marched  off. 

Bonaparte  stared  after  them,  biting  his  lip.  Then 
a  queer,  cruel  smile  came  in  his  eyes,  and  he  ran  back. 
He  called  a  sergeant,  pointed  out  the  two  speeding 
down  hill,  and  bade  him  take  a  firing  party. 

Not  for  the  last  time  the  vengeful  Corsican  blood 
brought  him  trouble.  The  English  redoubt,  which 
could  see  nothing,  heard  the  crackle  of  musketry  and 
fired  upon  the  sound.  A  storm  of  shell  came  dropping 
down  upon  Bonaparte's  cunning  works,  and  flashed  and 
thundered  its  mission  of  death.  Here  the  loose  earth 
slid  roaring  like  an  avalanche  and  buried  yelling 
wretches  alive,  and  there  they  lay  mangled  in  their 
blood.  The  grey  light  was  rent  with  lurid  flame,  and 
dimmed  in  bitter,  dark  smoke.  Mad  tumult  possessed 
the  sans-culottes.  They  ran  hither  and  thither  like 
frightened,  furious  beasts,  and  still  the  storm  of  shell 
beat  down. 

Bonaparte  broke  through  the  panic.  All  had  gone 
far  other  than  he  meant.  He  was  taken  unawares  and 
unready.  But  the  unforeseen  ever  found  him  at  his 
greatest.  Through  the  frenzied,  yelling  throng  he 
broke  to  the  battery  nearest  the  redoubt.  His  sharp 
voice  cut  across  the  din.  In  a  moment  he  had  men 
tearing  frantically  to  bring  guns  to  the  empty  em- 
placements. He  gave  the  range.  He  answered  fire 


100  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

with  fire.  And  the  while  through  the  mad  hurry, 
through  the  turmoil  of  slaughter,  he  sent  curt  orders 
that  set  his  men  to  work  again  all  round  the  hill.  He 
was  absolute  now  by  right  divine.  The  new  plan  for 
the  new  need  had  been  made  on  the  instant.  He 
would  hold  the  redoubt's  fire  with  his  one  battery, 
and  all  day  long  his  men  should  toil  at  the  rest 
till,  with  the  night,  in  the  dark,  he  was  ready  to  whelm 
the  English  fleet  in  a  sudden  vast  tempest  of  red-hot 
shot. 

But  the  English,  having  after  long  days  found  some- 
thing to  fire  at,  fired  mightily.  The  one  battery  was 
soon  a  reeking,  ghastly  mound  of  dead.  New  gunners 
shrank  from  that  siege  perilous. 

Then  Bonaparte  sprang  upon  the  breastwork,  flaunt- 
ing his  life  in  the  storm.  "Do  you  shrink,  then?"  he 
cried.  "Nay,  vie  for  the  honour!  Come,  my  children, 
come.  This  is  the  Battery  of  Men  without  Fear."  And 
at  that,  with  a  roaring  round  of  cheers  for  their  Cap- 
tain Cannon,  the  gunners  surged  forward,  and  fought 
for  the  chance  of  death. 

Bonaparte  sat  himself  calmly  down  by  an  abutment, 
and  called  for  pen  and  ink  and  paper  and  sandbox, 
and  a  sergeant  that  could  write,  and  in  the  mist  of 
that  thunderous  slaughter  began  to  dictate  a  missive 
to  Salicetti.  The  sergeant  wrote  leaning  on  the  breast- 
work. A  shell  from  the  redoubt  plunged  into  the  earth 
hard  by,  and  bursting,  hurled  the  sergeant  prone,  and 
smothered  him  and  Bonaparte  with  dust.  The  ser- 
geant rose  again  with  a  laugh,  and  shook  the  dust  from 
the  letter.  It  had  dried  the  ink. 

"Good,"  says  he.     "We  shall  spare  our  sand." 

Bonaparte  smiled  at  him.     "Your  name,  sergeant?" 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN        101 

"Junot,  sir." 

"I  shall  remember  it.  And  you  shall  not  forget  me. 
Come,  my  children,  come!  More  men  for  the  Battery 
of  the  Men  without  Fear." 

"Captain  Cannon!  Our  Captain  Cannon!"  New 
gunners  dragged  the  dead  away  to  make  room  for 
themselves  to  die. 

So  the  Battery  of  the  Men  without  Fear  held  the 
redoubt's  fire,  and  away  beyond  in  the  cunningly 
masked  galleries  and  terraces  of  the  hill  the  sans- 
culottes toiled  fiercely  to  make  ready  for  the  bombard- 
ment that  should  surprise  and  sink  the  English  fleet. 
So,  prodigal  of  the  lives  of  men,  Bonaparte  matured  his 
plan. 

But  with  that  plan  Mr.  Midshipman  Waring  was 
also  concerned.  You  left  him  speeding  down  the  hill 
with  Mademoiselle  Florian — neither  was  beautified  by 
petticoats — while  musket  bullets  whinged  about  their 
ears.  Mr.  Waring,  who  had  studied  the  hill  with  some 
care,  made  for  a  spot  where  the  gentle  full-bosomed 
slope  of  it  changed  suddenly  to  a  sharp  descent.  Down 
that  steep  place  Mademoiselle  Florian  and  he  went 
without  dignity,  while  the  bullets  thudded  into  the 
ground  above.  They  were  out  of  sight  and  range  a 
moment.  Then  the  howitzers  of  the  redoubt  began  to 
roar,  and  the  sans-culottes  had  no  more  leisure  to  think 
of  Mr.  Waring. 

Mr.  Waring  caught  Mademoiselle  Florian's  arm,  and 
with  heavy  steps  checked  the  pace  to  a  walk.  Then, 
"Madeleine,  my  dear,"  says  he,  and  between  the  roar 
of  the  shells  his  voice  came  strained  and  unsteady. 
"Oh,  Madeleine,  my  dear,  my  darling!" 

Madeleine  Florian  gave  a  queer  high-pitched  laugh. 


102  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Dont,  oh,  please  dont!"  she  cried,  "joke  to  me." 
me." 

Mr.  Waring's  hand  ceased  to  quiver,  and  came  closer 
about  her  arm.  He  drew  a  long  breath.  .  .  .  "When 
I  saw  myself  in  petticoats,  I  saw  the  girl  I  could  love, 
dear.  Unfortunately  I  had  so  many  rivals  for  my 
affections.  Now  I  know  why  I  was  made  a  man.  I 
should  have  convulsed  the  male  world  if  I  had  been  a 
woman.  But,  of  course,  it  would  have  been  very  good 
for  you.  For  you  would  then  have  had  a  superior  of 
your  own  sex.  And  you  would  have  had  a  chance  to 
learn  those  habits  of  subordination  and  discipline  which 
prevent  any  one  from  being  a  charming  wife,  and  are 
characteristically  nauseating  in  a  husband."  Beneath 
her  rough  boy's  coat  the  girl's  bosom  was  tremulous, 
tears  were  wet  on  her  cheeks,  and  again  and  again  she 
bit  her  lip.  Mr.  Waring  continued  to  be  fluently  mad, 
to  the  tune  of  the  roaring  guns. 

They  were  near  Toulon  town  before  she  stopped 
suddenly,  and  half  turned  to  him,  and  smiling  like  a 
spring  morning,  caught  his  hand.  "You  always  under- 
stand," she  whispered.  "You  do  just,  just  right.  And 
now  do  not  talk  any  more  at  all." 

There  was  a  crowd  of  the  good  folks  of  Toulon 
watching  the  battle  of  the  guns,  gaily  as  though  it 
were  a  show  of  fireworks.  With  Madeleine's  hand  in 
his,  Mr.  Waring,  supernaturally  grave,  brought  her 
through  the  crowd  and  home. 

Then,  leaving  her  with  a  horrified  mother,  he  hurried 
to  his  ship.  My  Lord  Hood  was  in  the  stern  walk  with 
his  flag-captain.  Mr.  Waring  approached  from  be- 
hind. "Come  on  board,  sir,"  said  he. 

The  two  jumped. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN         103 

"The  devil!"  cried  my  Lord  Hood. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Waring.  "He  is  with  the  sans- 
culottes;" and  he  told  his  tale,  told  of  Bonaparte  and 
those  vast  hidden  batteries.  .  .  . 

My  Lord  Hood  began  to  bite  his  left  thumb;  then 
he  bit  his  left  forefinger  as  well.  .  .  .  And  so  he  began 
to  mumble  dictation  to  Captain  Carew  .  .  .  the  first 
English  admiral  who  played  a  hand  with  Bonaparte. 

The  flagship  wreathed  herself  in  strings  of  bunting. 
The  signalmen  of  the  fleet  began  to  be  very  busy. 
Boatswains'  pipes  twittered  on  every  forecastle.  It 
was  "hands  to  the  capstan."  Anchors  came  apeak. 
Under  light  sail  the  English  fleet  drew  out  of  the  inner 
harbour.  My  Lord  Hood  was  not  to  be  surprised  that 
day;  but  Toulon  town  watched  him  go  with  amazed 
and  fearful  eyes. 

The  fleet  was  hardly  clear  of  L'Eguillette  when, 
aboard  the  Agamemnon,  "Signal  from  the  flag,  sir," 
says  the  signal  midshipman  to  Captain  Nelson.  Cap- 
tain Nelson  had  seen  it.  He  was  smiling  and  rubbing 
his  lean  hands.  The  Agamemnon  went  about,  and  run- 
ning close  in  shore,  fired  her  broadside  up  at  Bregaillon 
Hill,  and,  neatly  handled,  went  about  again  and  gave 
another  broadside  to  those  hidden  batteries.  It  was 
too  much  for  the  sans-cvlottes.  Every  gun  in  position 
let  drive  at  the  daring  ship.  The  whole  hillside  flamed 
and  was  lost  in  smoke.  With  her  foresail  in  tatters, 
with  her  mizzen-topmast  lopping  like  a  broken  wing, 
Captain  Nelson  brought  the  Agamemnon  out  of  range. 

There  was  no  doubt  now.  It  was  time  to  go.  But 
my  Lord  Hood  was  not  in  a  hurry.  He  paced  the  quar- 
ter-deck chewing  his  left  thumb  and  mumbling  signals. 
A  whole  flotilla  of  cutters  dropped  down  to  the  water. 


104  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Captain  Sidney  Smith  came  to  the  flagship,  spoke  for 
three  minutes  with  his  admiral,  saluted  extravagantly 
(that  was  his  way),  and  went  over  the  side  and  led 
the  flotilla  shoreward.  Captain  Sidney  Smith  was  to 
seize  all  shipping,  embark  all  the  good  folk  of  Toulon 
who  had  no  mind  to  become  sans-culottes,  blow  up  the 
arsenal.  Then  my  Lord  Hood  mumbled  more  orders, 
and  the  Victory  led  the  line  back  into  the  inner  harbour 
and  joined  battle  with  the  hill  of  Bregaillon.  Sea  and 
grey  sky  flamed  to  the  flame  of  the  guns,  and  the  air 
beat  in  waves  of  thunder. 

Bonaparte  was  disappointed.  That  fleet  had  weighed 
anchor  too  soon.  Not  now  could  it  be  caught  helpless 
and  fired  and  sunk;  but  it  could  be  driven  away — 
Toulon  could  still  be  taken.  Over  the  quaking  earth 
of  the  hillside  Bonaparte  moved,  spreading  through  all 
the  army  that  fierce,  indomitable  energy  that  surged 
in  his  own  soul.  It  was  his  hour.  He  breathed  force 
into  men  like  a  god,  and  with  strength  hardly  human 
the  sans-culottes  toiled  to  do  his  will.  They  had  every 
battery  armed,  they  served  the  guns  at  wondrous  speed, 
they  offered  themselves  eager  to  death  so  Captain  Can- 
non's will  were  done.  And  never  man  saw  such  a  tem- 
pest of  fire. 

Against  the  redoubt  on  L'Eguillette  Bonaparte  led 
a  storming  party,  and  though  its  guns  blasted  whole 
files  of  men  away,  through  the  embrasures  broke  the 
sans-culottes  and  drove  out  the  English  at  the  push  of 
bayonet.  Captain  Cannon  led.  Then  he  turned  the 
guns  of  L'Eguillette  on  the  English  fleet  too,  and  beat 
it  farther  away.  "My  children,  children  of  fire,"  cried 
Bonaparte,  clear  amid  the  roar,  "glory  is  ours  and 
the  praise  of  France.  To-morrow  we  sleep  in  Toulon." 


HOW  HE  MET  A  MIDSHIPMAN         105 

And  the  tempest  grew  and  grew, and  the  sans-culottes 
heated  their  shot  red,  and  ever  and  again  an  English 
ship  was  rent  in  flame.  But  they  kept  the  flames  down, 
and,  hovering  all  but  out  of  range,  fired  back  as  best 
they  might,  while  behind  their  guardian  line  a  stream 
of  craft  bore  the  good  folk  of  Toulon  away  to  the 
safety  of  the  roadstead.  And  night  fell,  and  tireless 
still  the  sans-culottes  kept  up  their  fire,  and  tireless  the 
English  seamen  answered.  A  mountain  of  lurid  flame 
stood  against  the  sky,  and  ships  that  flamed  from  fore- 
castle to  stern  moved  on  the  black  water.  Then  from 
the  quay,  from  the  arsenal  of  Toulon,  belched  a  volcano 
of  fire,  and  over  town  and  hill  and  harbour  came  the 
glaring  light  of  ruin.  Through  that  grim  glory  the 
English  fleet  moved  stately  to  the  calm  gloom  of  the 
sea.  England  had  done  her  best.  Bonaparte  had  won 
the  first  game. 

And  that  is  how  Captain  Cannon  took  Toulon.  But 
I  give  some  of  his  glory  to  the  midshipman.  And  I 
like  to  remember  how  one  night,  as  the  fleet  was  beat- 
ing down  the  Spanish  coast,  laden  with  French  exiles 
from  France,  my  Lord  Hood  passed  the  word  for  Mr. 
Waring.  Mr.  Waring  was  with  Mademoiselle  Florian 
behind  a  carronade  when  the  marine  found  him.  "Tell 
the  admiral,"  said  he,  "that  Mr.  Waring  is  at  his 
devotions." 


CHAPTER  IV 

HOW    HE    SOUGHT    LOVE 

THE  triumph  of  Toulon  exalted  the  hearts  of  the 
philanthropists  of  Paris.  In  the  Convention  the  Citizen 
Robespierre  rose  to  move  that  a  Supreme  Being  should 
exist.  He  had  not  much  humour,  that  bilious  Citizen 
Robespierre.  No  one  was  so  rash  as  to  tell  him  so. 
They  shut  their  eyes  to  the  ludicrous,  ghastly  madness 
of  it,  and  voted  for  the  immediate  creation  of  a  Supreme 
Being.  It  was  the  fine  flower  of  the  Revolution,  a  god 
by  act  of  Parliament,  a  god  born  of  Robespierre.  But 
some  of  the  Jacobins  smiled  sideways. 

There  was  an  artillery  officer  at  Sablons  whose  heart 
was  exalted  too,  not  by  victory,  but  by  a  woman. 
Chief  of  Brigade  Bonaparte  had  met  the  Citizeness 
Beauharnais,  a  woman  with  all  the  virtues  of  an  ani- 
mal. If  you  pity  him  for  nothing  else,  you  may  pity 
him  for  what  he  was  fated  to  love. 

A  fete  was  decreed  in  honour  of  Robespierre's  off- 
spring. "A  sea  of  flowers,"  they  tell  you,  "drowned 
Paris.  Every  window  had  its  garland  or  its  flag,"  and 
the  Citizen  Robespierre  put  on  a  sky-blue  coat.  It  was 
decent  to  be  fine  on  his  god's  birthday.  "Streams  of 
people,  rivers  of  flowers,"  flowed  to  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries.  Thither  the  Citizen  Robespierre,  bearing  a 
bouquet  of  wheat  and  flowers,  led  his  obedient  sheep, 
the  members  of  the  Convention.  He  marched  in  front, 
in  state,  alone,  the  bilious  little  man.  But  some  of 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  107 

the  sheep  looked  at  him  queerly.  "Even  creating  god 
one  should  be  modest,"  said  Tallien  in  Carnot's  ear. 

In  the  midst  of  the  vast  throng  stood  statues  of 
Atheism,  Anarchy,  and  Egoism,  hideous  as  sans-culotte 
art  could  make  them,  appalling  to  the  eye.  There  also 
was  a  rostrum,  and  upon  it  the  members  of  the  Con- 
vention crowded.  It  was  not  big  enough.  They  were 
vilely  uncomfortable.  They  murmured  against  Robes- 
pierre's god.  The  Citizen  Robespierre  explained  in  an 
oration  how  beautiful  a  god  he  had  made,  but  the 
Citizen  Robespierre's  voice  was  small,  and  the  winds 
of  heaven  strong,  and  they  bore  his  recipe  away.  He 
took  a  torch  and  went  forward,  sky-blue  and  strutting, 
to  fire  those  horrific  statues.  Robespierre  putting  a 
torch  to  Egoism — it  is  one  of  the  great  scenes  of  the 
world's  comedy.  Egoism  and  Atheism  and  Anarchy 
(they  were  well  steeped  in  turpentine)  flamed  nobly, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  flames  uprose  with  creaking 
machinery  a  larger,  fairer  statue  .  .  .  the  Supreme 
Being,  .  .  .  incombustible,  at  least,  if  smutty  ...  as 
strange  an  idol  as  ever  man's  madness  made.  But  they 
worshipped.  There  were  hymns  and  processions  and 
dances,  and  ardently  all  the  people  worshipped  this 
strange  god.  Long  lord  of  life  and  death  in  France, 
Robespierre  was  lord  at  that  hour  of  the  soul  and  hope 
and  faith.  One  pities  him. 

For  making  a  god  he  did  not  stay  the  Terror  one 
day.  Ere  that  summer  sun  set  the  prisons  heard  a 
double  tale  of  those  whom  the  guillotine  should  claim 
at  dawn.  For  making  a  god  no  Jacobin  was  robbed 
of  his  due  debauch.  That  night  Barere  gave  a  dinner 
at  the  Restaurant  Meot,  and  Robespierre  was  there, 
and  Couthon  the  cripple,  and  Henriot,  and  St.  Just, 


108  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

and  Billaud,  and  Freron,  and  Carnot.  The  table  in 
the  green  room  was  strewn  with  roses.  Barere  had 
some  skill  in  dining.  After  the  patties  of  Rcuen  veal 
came  Gascon  partridges,  cooked  in  a  manner  of  his 
own  with  scraps  of  Bayonne  ham.  For  drink  he  gave 
them  a  flood  of  '79  champagne.  And  yet  the  Jacobins 
were  not  harmonious.  Robespierre  must  still  be  preach- 
ing of  his  Supreme  Being,  and  his  sermon  was  not  gay. 
Henriot  and  St.  Just,  indeed,  devout  disciples,  listened 
earnestly;  but  Carnot  yawned,  and  Freron  groaned, 
and  Billaud  shrugged  his  round  shoulders  and  fidgeted. 
Poor  Barere,  who  liked  a  sermon  as  little  as  any  man, 
unless  he  were  the  preacher,  tried  to  make  Robespierre 
drunk;  but  Robespierre,  unfortunately,  had  no  vices, 
and  his  sermon  seemed  likely  to  be  as  continuous  as 
the  force  of  gravitation.  The  air  was  close,  and  the 
Jacobins  grew  heavy  and  hot  with  wine.  St.  Just  was 
first  to  throw  off  his  coat,  and  the  others  did  likewise. 
Still  the  sermon  went  on.  Barere  (who  was  growing 
desperate)  cut  it  off  a  moment  to  say  that  he  had  sent 
for  a  dancer  who  was  "Cypris  herself."  Let  them  take 
the  wine  to  the  silver  room  and  watch  her.  They  went 
eagerly;  but  Robespierre  followed,  and,  while  the  girl 
postured  for  them,  he  must  still  be  explaining  how  he 
made  his  Supreme  Being.  Then  Billaud,  who  had 
drunk  perhaps  enough,  snapped  at  him.  "Oh,  you 
bore  me  with  your  Supreme  Being !" 

It  was  a  challenge  to  Robespierre's  empire.  The 
little  man  stopped  short.  You  see  him  turn  on  Billaud, 
his  bilious  face  drawn,  red  specks  growing  in  the  white 
of  his  eyes.  Then  he  went  on  with  his  sermon  again. 

Carnot  was  first  to  fly.  He  made  heartburn  from 
the  white  wine  his  excuse;  but  Billaud  winked  at  him 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  109 

and  chuckled.  In  the  outer  room  seeking  his  coat  it 
happened  that  he  took  Robespierre's  instead.  It  felt 
strangely.  He  put  his  hand  in  the  pocket  and  found  a 
paper.  It  was  in  Robespierre's  writing.  He  read  the 
title,  "Traitors  to  Fraternity,"  and  beneath  it  Tallien's 
name  and  B arras's  and  his  own.  Robespierre's  god 
was  nothing,  but  Robespierre's  hate  was  to  fear.  Car- 
not  hurried  away. 

Madame  Tallien's  salon  was  gay.  You  see  her,  the 
lovely  dark  woman,  Diana's  form  draped  in  ungirt 
diaphanous  rose  dress.  Her  little  white  sandalled  foot 
peeps  out,  and  there  is  gold  about  her  slim  right  ankle 
and  a  ring  of  gold  on  one  tiny  toe.  Madame  Tallien 
leads  the  assault  of  womanhood  upon  the  Terror. 
Beside  her  is  one  in  the  springtime  of  a  noble  beauty, 
white  as  her  shimmering  white  robe — the  child  whom 
Recamier  has  just  wed.  There  beyond,  where  Barras 
lingers,  is  ripe  loveliness.  She  sits  at  her  ease,  clad  in 
silver,  gracious,  careless  of  Barras  and  all  the  world, 
plainly  sufficient  to  herself.  The  full  red  lips,  the  warm 
life  of  her  cheek,  the  velvet  darkness  of  her  eyes,  wake 
a  man's  pulse  with  longing.  It  is  Josephine  de  Beau- 
harnais. 

Barras  is  talking  love,  and  she  looks  up  with  that 
slow  mysterious  smile — the  smile  of  woman's  power. 
He  is  mighty  fine,  the  Citizen  Barras,  a  tall,  alert 
figure,  with  a  square-tailed  coat  in  stripes  of  white  and 
sea-green  and  cherry-coloured  breeches  and  sea-green 
stockings  clocked  with  red.  But  all  the  men  dazzle. 
Fouche's  sinister  face  rises  above  a  peach-coloured 
stock.  Tallien  has  his  fox-coloured  hair  plaited  over 
the  temples  and  knotted  back,  and  his  coat  is  three 
shades  of  green  and  his  stockings  yellow. 


110  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Chief  of  Brigade  Bonaparte !"  Into  the  splendour 
a  lean  little  man,  his  uniform  shiny  and  dingy  and 
darned.  His  head,  that  great  neckless  head  with  the 
lank,  untidy  brown  hair,  is  plainly  too  big  for  him. 
"Chief  of  scarecrows!"  says  Tallien,  with  a  sneer  and 
a  shrug  and  a  stare.  There  was  but  one  knew  the 
threadbare  little  man.  Barras  has  seen  him  take  Tou- 
lon, but  Barras  had  not  dreamt  of  him  in  a  drawing- 
room,  and  Barras  stared  with  the  rest. 

Bonaparte  strode  up  to  Madame  Tallien  and  saluted. 
Madame  Tallien  surveyed  the  strange  little  man  with  de- 
lectable mirth.  "Citizeness !"  he  said,  "citizeness  of  the 
country  of  beauty !  I  am  your  suppliant — for  trousers." 

Madame  Tallien  made  an  ejaculation. 

"Not  to  cover  me,"  he  explained,  looking  down  at 
his  own  lean  legs,  which  were,  indeed,  covered  with 
patches.  "Citizeness,  at  Sablons  three  thousand  of  the 
soldiers  of  France  cry  out  for  trousers  at  least,  and 
the  Convention  will  vote  them  no  inch  of  cloth,  there- 
fore, citizeness,  I  resort  here.  Here  those  who  govern 
France" — he  took  in  Tallien  and  Barras  with  one 
glance  of  his  steel  eyes — "come  to  be  governed.  Citi- 
zeness of  beauty,  give  me  trousers!" 

"After  all,"  said  the  citizeness,  "what  has  beauty  to 
do  with  trousers?" 

"Beauty,  citizeness,  loves  bravery.  Without  trou- 
sers we  cannot  be  brave." 

"Then  are  all  women  cowards?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  What  could  be  braver  than  to 
face  life  in  petticoats?" 

"You  please  me,"  said  Madame  Tallien. 

"It  is  what  I  intended  to  do,"  said  Bonaparte. 

"And  do  you  always  do  what  you  want  with  woman  ?" 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  111 

"I  make  it  a  habit  not  to  fail." 

"But  how  tedious — oh,  for  the  women,  I  mean !  It 
would  doubtless" — her  quick  eyes  wandered  from  Bona- 
parte, for  Carnot  had  come  in  in  a  hurry,  and  she  saw 
him  gather  her  husband  and  Barras  and  draw  them 
away  to  an  inner  room — "it  would  doubtless" — dis- 
tracted, she  ended  the  sentence — "be  wiser  of  me — to 
see  you — no  more." 

"Many  people,"  said  Bonaparte,  "will  wish  they 
had  never  seen  me  before  I  am  done  with  the  world." 

Her  eyes  lingered  on  him  a  moment.  He  was  sur- 
prising. But  her  thoughts  were  away.  She  rose. 
"Pray  give  me  leave " 

"Certainly,  citizeness" — Bonaparte  made  way — "but 
give  me  trousers." 

Madame  Tallien  followed  her  husband. 

Bonaparte  was  not  well  pleased  with  her.  She  had 
had  the  sense  to  be  impressed  by  him,  but  also  she  had 
forsaken  him  for  her  husband.  In  that  husband's 
doings,  in  the  events  of  the  last  moment,  Bonaparte 
also  was  interested.  He  wanted  to  know  why  Carnot 
came  sweating  with  hurry,  yet  pale,  to  consult  Tallien 
and  Barras,  and  what  the  issue  would  be.  But  it  was 
not  that  need  that  kept  him  prowling,  dingy,  unheeded, 
through  that  variegated  throng,  with  the  fierce,  hungry 
eyes  of  a  beast  of  prey.  He  sought  some  one. 

Josephine  de  Beauharnais  lay  on  a  couch  alone. 
Through  the  silver  mist  of  her  gown  Bonaparte  saw 
the  full  ripe  beauty  of  her,  very  woman  of  very  woman, 
womanhood  itself. 

The  blood  leapt  dark  to  his  brow.  His  eyes  flashed 
and  changed.  A  slow  smile  came.  "Citizeness,  I  am 
your  soldier,"  he  said.  "I  have  come  for  you." 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 


"But  I  thought  you  came  for  trousers?" 

He  came  closer.  "You  are  mine,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  She  looked  up  with  that  little  smile  of  hers  —  the 
smile  of  sex,  mocking,  mysterious.  Bonaparte's  eyes 
gleamed  like  stars  of  steel,  the  grim  lines  of  jaw  and 
brow  stood  gaunt.  Josephine's  smile  quivered  and 
faded  out.  She  looked  nervously  from  side  to  side 
like  a  frightened  child. 

"I  claimed  you  from  the  hour  we  met.  You  are  mine 
while  your  soul  lasts." 

"But  I  know  nothing  about  you,"  she  protested  in  a 
tone  of  injury. 

"You  know  the  soldier  who  wrenched  your  dead  hus- 
band's sword  from  the  butchers  of  the  Temple." 

"It  is  unkind  to  talk  of  my  husband,"  said  Josephine. 

"I  come  now  to  lay  my  glory  at  your  feet,"  said 
Bonaparte,  and  his  voice  was  harsh  and  unsteady. 

Josephine  shrank  away.  He  amazed  and  frightened 
her.  She  answered  him  with  a  weak  laugh  and  a 
banality.  "You  are  very  generous,  citizen." 

"Generous?"  cried  Bonaparte.  "Generous?  Is  it 
generous  to  give  when  giving  is  the  soul's  joy?  It  is 
all  for  you,  citizeness  —  all  that  I  win  —  the  world  full 
of  power  and  glory." 

"Oh,  I  can  do  without  glory,"  said  Josephine,  with 
her  light  laugh.  "It  is  happiness  I  want." 

"Then  you  have  only  to  love  me.  Abandon  your- 
self, fling  yourself  into  the  arms  of  my  soul.  My  being 
is  only  to  bring  you  happiness.  You  were  made  to 
be  mine.  Accomplish  your  purpose,  that  is  body's  joy 
and  soul's." 

And  all  Josephine  had  to  say,  was  :  "Oh,  but  I  do 
not  think  you  ought,  citizen."  And  then  she  directed 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  113 

her  eyes  and  his  round  the  crowded  salon.  She  could 
never  forget  propriety. 

Bonaparte  was  beyond  all  that.  From  under  his 
great,  gaunt  brow  grey  flame  clove  at  her.  He  caught 
her  wrist  hard.  "God !  do  you  know  how  I  am  curbing 
myself?"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "I  am  not  a  man,  I 
am  manhood — force — force;  and  you — you  are  not 
some  woman,  you  are  womanhood — the  matter  of  life. 
1  want  you !  Do  you  understand  ?  I  want  you !" 

"But  you  hurt  me,"  said  Josephine. 

"It  will  please  you  to  be  hurt." 

"Oh,  will  you  let  me  go !"  she  cried,  indignant. 

"I  shall  never  let  you  go.  You  are  bound  to  me 
while  we  last!" 

"After  all,"  said  Josephine,  "you  are  very  absurd. 
Are  you  not  now  an  absurd  citizen?"  She  gave  that 
foolish  light  laugh  of  hers,  and  began  to  unclasp  the 
brown  grip  on  her  wrist  with  coquettish  fingers.  "You 
see" — she  patted  his  hand  in  playful  punishment — "you 
know  nothing — whatever — about  me.  And  never  will !" 
Smiling  archly,  she  looked  up  at  Bonaparte.  But  those 
fierce  intent  eyes  of  his  were  set  on  her  form,  her  full 
ripe  womanhood.  .  .  .  The  smile  froze  on  her  lips.  .  .  . 
She  shivered  a  little. 

Bonaparte's  eyes  flashed  upon  hers.  "You  are  mine. 
My  wife  for  me.  You  know  it!" 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  quivering.  "No ! — no ! 
You  frighten  me !"  she  muttered. 

Bonaparte  laid  his  hand  on  her  bare  shoulder.  "I 
shall  frighten  you  till  your  soul  is  one  with  mine,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

And  while  Josephine  shrank  away  into  the  corner  of 
the  couch,  "Captain  Cannon!"  said  some  one.  "Cap- 


114  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

tain  Cannon !"  It  was  the  name  Bonaparte  had  earned 
at  Toulon.  He  turned  and  saw  Barras  at  his  elbow. 
"Interrupting  your  amour "  said  Barras,  grin- 
ning, and  linked  arms  with  him  and  walked  him  away. 

Josephine  raised  herself  with  a  dainty  shudder  and 
an  "Ouf!"  of  relief.  "Oh,  but  he  is  mad — and  he  is 
like  an  east  wind!"  said  she,  and  with  that  shut  the 
windows  of  her  luxurious  soul  on  him  and  went  across 
the  room  to  coquette  with  Carvoisin. 

A  while  before  Tallien  and  his  wife  and  Barras  and 
Carnot  were  met  in  the  inner  room.  "I  have  been 
dining  with  Robespierre,"  says  Carnot,  still  nearly 
breathless. 

"Menu,  sermon  with  sermon  to  follow,"  said  Barras. 

"My  poor  friend,  take  a  pill,"  said  Tallien. 

"You  had  better  joke  to-night,"  quoth  Carnot. 
"To-morrow  you  may  not  have  heads."  He  turned 
on  the  woman:  "Our  Lady  of  Tallien,  are  you  ready 
to  follow  Marie  Antoinette?" 

"I  am  more  beautiful  than  she.  And  less  virtuous. 
There  is  a  man  or  two  would  fight  for  me."  She  smiled 
at  him  in  the  power  of  beauty.  Then,  with  a  grimace : 
"Eh,  but  he  sickens  me,  that  butcher !  You  must  stamp 
upon  him,  Tallien!" 

"Well,"  said  Tallien,  "and  what  is  the  Bilious  plan- 
ning now?" 

"We  have  the  honour  to  be  his  enemies,  Barras  and 
you  and  I" — and  Carnot  told  of  the  paper  in  Robes- 
pierre's coat.  Barras  whistled,  and  Tallien  looked 
glum. 

"But,  Enfin!"  cried  Madame  Tallien,  her  dark  eyes 
sparkling.  "Ah,  you  must  finish  with  him  now !  Thank 
God !  I  am  weary  to  loathing  of  the  blood." 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  115 

Barras  whistled  again.  "  "Tis  we  or  he  in  fact,"  he 
said. 

"He  will  be  the  devil  to  finish  with,  our  Bilious," 
muttered  Tallien. 

His  wife  turned  on  him,  fierce,  radiant,  lovely.  "Oh, 
that  I  were  a  man !"  she  cried. 

"Then  there  would  be  .some  very  unhappy  women," 
said  Tallien.  "But'what  ails  the  Bilious  with  us?" 

"I'am  not  very  .obedient,"  said  Carnot,  with  a  grim 
smile,  "and  you  make  jokes.  Well,  what  is  to  do?" 

Tallien  rubbed  at  the  plaits  of  his  fox-coloured  hair. 
"There  is  .more  than  one  who  does  not  love  him  for  his 
Supreme  Being,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "And  he  has 
long  been  a  bore,  our  Bilious.  It  is  not  the  way  to  be 
loved  in  "France."  They  began  to  count  names  in  the 
list  of  the  Convention.  .  .  . 

Then  Barras  broke  off  with  an  "Ah,  bah,  what  is 
a  vote?  The^gendarmes  are  his,  and  the  mob." 

"And  the  army?"  Carnot  asked. 

Barras  checked  his  mouth  half  open  and  stood  so, 
dumb.  .  .  .  Then,  "I  know  the  army  a  little.  .  .  . 
Wait!"  He  went  out  to  seek  Bonaparte,  .  .  .  and 
found  him,  and  took  him  to  Madame  Tallien's  boudoir. 
Amiably  he  set  a  chair,  and,  "My  dear  Captain  Can- 
non," says  he,  "it  was  you  who  took  Toulon." 

"I  have  not  forgotten  it,"  Bonaparte  snapped, 
"though  the  Government  has." 

"Ah,  I  know  that  the  Government  has  not  rewarded 
you  duly,  and " 

"The  Government  has  rewarded  me  damnably. 
Doubtless  your  recommendations  have  availed." 

"My  dear  Captain  Cannon,"  said  Barras  smoothly, 
"it  is  hard  to  make  our  Robespierre  do  anything  for 


116  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

the  soldiers  of  France.  But  doubtless  in  their  affec- 
tions you  have  your  reward." 

"You  will  some  day  see  how  the  soldiers  of  France 
will  follow  Bonaparte." 

"Would  that  I  could  give  you  the  chance  to  lead 
them !  Alas,  my  friend !  our  dictator — faith,  I  forgot 
myself! — our  Supreme  Being,  our  Robespierre,  has  lit- 
tle honour  for  soldiers."  Barras  paused,  his  crafty 
brown  eyes  smiling  genially.  Bonaparte's  face  was  of 
a  sphinx.  Barras  became  unselfishly  indignant.  "By 
the  Republic!  the  soldiers  of  France  are  scurvily 
treated!  We — we,  their  friends,  are  helpless.  But  I 
protest,  I  wonder  they  do  not  right  themselves."  Again 
he  paused  for  a  reply.  Again  Bonaparte  failed  to 
oblige  him.  But  Barras  was  still  amiable.  "My  dear 
Captain  Cannon,  I  am  glad  you  came  here  to-night.  I 
wish  you  to  be  sure  Barras  does  not  forget  your  vast 
services  to  France.  Barras  is  your  friend — your  friend, 
and  the  friend  of  the  army.  If  you  knew  how  I  have 
urged  the  army's  cause  on  the  Committee  of  Public 
Safety!  I  shall  move  in  it  again,  be  assured.  I  shall 
not  rest  till  the  army  has  its  rights." 

"That  is  your  duty,"  snapped  Bonaparte ;  and  Bar- 
ras got  no  more  out  of  him. 

Nevertheless,  when  Barras  went  back  to  Tallien  and 
Carnot,  and  Madame  Tallien  asked,  "Well?" 

"Not  ill,"  said  Barras,  rubbing  his  hands.  "It  was 
the  citizen  that  wanted  trousers.  And  I  think  I  know 
what  else  he  wants.  He  can  make  soldiers  fight,  that 
citizen.  A  good  tool.  Leave  the  army  to  me."  And 
then  they  began  to  talk  intrigue,  which,  to  be  just, 
they  well  understood. 

And  so  on  the  eve  of  Robespierre's  god-making  a 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  117 

new  plot  began  to  form  against  Robespierre.  What 
had  he  to  fear?  He  had  beaten  down  Brissot  and 
Danton  and  Desmoulins.  Never  one  on  whom  his  hate 
fell  had  lived.  What  hope  for  these  ?  Why,  these  knew 
how  to  be  knaves. 

The  iconoclasts  have  said  that  Bonaparte  also  had 
that  ability.  Bonaparte  had  seen  the  mind  of  the 
amiable  Barras  legible  as  a  book.  The  amiable  Barras, 
he  perceived,  desired  to  rebel  against  the  divinity  of 
Robespierre,  and  was  in  need  of  soldiers  to  help  him. 
It  was  then  probable  that  the  divine  Robespierre  would 
need  soldiers  to  put  down  Barras.  Bonaparte  had  no 
prejudices.  He  despised  them  both.  He  was  ready  to 
fight  for  either.  It  was  desirable  to  be  on  sale  to  both. 
Then  let  them  bid!  With  the  morning  he  made  a  call 
on  Robespierre. 

Robespierre  lodged  in  austere  republican  simplicity 
over  a  cabinet-maker's  shop  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore. 
Bonaparte  sat  upon  a  mound  of  shavings  and  made 
friends  with  the  cabinet-maker — he  was  always  at  ease 
with  common  folk — while  Robespierre  finished  his  morn- 
ing coffee.  When  he  was  brought  upstairs  he  found 
the  bilious  little  man  in  a  nankeen  dressing-gown  with 
Rousseau's  "Confessions."  Robespierre,  who  did  not 
love  soldiers,  nodded  stiffly  to  his  salute.  "Bonaparte. 
Chief  of  Brigade.  From  Sablons,"  said  Bonaparte, 
military  fashion. 

"You  ought  to  be  at  your  post,"  said  Robespierre 
peevishly. 

"Even  if  I  have  no  trousers?"  said  Bonaparte.  "We 
have  not  many  trousers  at  Sablons,  citizen.  I  request 
that  you  would  ask  mother  France  to  give  us  trou- 
sers." 


118  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Robespierre  made  an  oration  upon  the  Republic's 
right  to  claim  the  allegiance  of  her  soldiers  whatever 
they  suffered. 

"Oh,  I  come  to  assure  you  of  my  allegiance!"  said 
Bonaparte. 

"It  is  not  to  me  you  owe  allegiance.  It  is  to 
France,"  said  Robespierre,  and  made  another  oration 
upon  the  moral  obligation  of  the  perfect  soldier  to  fel- 
low citizens,  to  the  Government,  to  France. 

Bonaparte  bit  down  his  impatience.  The  Citizen 
Robespierre  was  not  amusing.  But  there  was  business 
to  do.  "To  you  our  allegiance,"  he  persisted,  "since 
you  are  France.  Citizen,  it  may  be  you  have  enemies" 
— he  paused  artistically.  He  saw  Robespierre's  eyelids 
flicker. 

"I  have  had  enemies,"  said  Robespierre. 

"Some  perhaps  live  yet,"  said  Bonaparte,  dropping 
his  voice. 

Red  spots  came  in  Robespierre's  eyes.  "What  do 
you  mean?"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  know?  Who 
are  they?"  The  passion  for  suspicion  and  hate  dis- 
torted his  lean,  bilious  face. 

"Who  are  the  enemies  of  France,  citizen?  They  are 
yours.  You  should  know  who  are  false  to  France. 
They  are  false  to  you." 

Robespierre  rocked  himself  together.  His  lean  lips, 
drawn  sideways,  were  twitching.  He  made  a  strange, 
hissing  noise.  "False  to  me!"  he  muttered.  "I  know 
them.  One  must  strike ! — strike !  It  is  for  Liberty ! 
To  root  out  the  enemies  of  Liberty.  It  is  the  cause  of 
Humanity !  Strike ! — strike !  I  know  them,  the  traitors 
to  Equal  Fraternity.  Their  blood  too!"  Then  he 
looked  up  and  saw  Bonaparte,  and  started,  and  began 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  119 

to  make  an  oration  about  tyrannicide  and  Harmodius 
and  Aristogeiton. 

Bonaparte  heard  it  to  the  end.  Then :  "Citizen,  the 
champions  of  Liberty  are  in  danger  sometimes.  If  you 
are  in  need,  call  me.  I  am  a  soldier.  Bonaparte,  Chief 
of  Brigade.  At  Sablons.  Where  we  want  trousers." 
He  saluted  again  with  the  soldierly  air  that  Robes- 
pierre hated,  and  strode  out.  So  he  put  himself  up 
for  sale. 

The  rag-pickers  were  busy  still  in  the  street  as  he 
tramped  away.  While  he  crossed  the  Place  de  la  Revo- 
lution the  guillotine  began  its  day's  work. 

On  the  scaffold  a  girl  stood  white  against  the  sun- 
shine. Bonaparte  saw  her  face  moulded  in  a  child's 
wonder  at  death.  Her  hands  were  bound  behind  her, 
the  dress  torn  from  her  neck,  but  her  dark  hair  hung 
heavy  in  the 'way  of  the  knife.  One  of  the  executioner's 
journeymen  jerked  the  tresses  out  and  held  them  while 
another  with  shears  hacked  them  off.  And  the  child, 
writhing,  shrieked,  "Mamma,  my  mamma."  A  moment 
more  and  she  was  thrown  down  on  the  plank,  and 
through  the  sunlight  the  broad  knife  flashed.  .  .  . 
Her  head  was  held  up.  The  scanty  crowd  did  not 
cheer;  they  criticised  its  beauty.  Gaunt  women 
knitting  among  the  tumbrils  beneath  the  scaffold 
grinned  at  each  other.  .  .  .  And  mothers  and  maids 
were  cast  under  the  knife,  and  men  in  their  first 
strength,  and  cripples,  and  old  men  whose  work  was 
done,  till  the  executioners  were  crimson  hand  and 
foot,  and  on  those  knitting  women  and  the  sodden 
earth  fell  a  rain  of  blood  .  .  .  that  the  will  of 
the  bilious  fanatic  of  forms  and  theories  might  be 
done.  , 


120  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Bonaparte  tramped  on,  close  lipped,  a  thousand 
visions  jostling  behind  that  great  dark  brow. 

Now  Tallien  and  Carnot  and  Barras  were  up  and  at 
work,  Tallien  and  Carnot  moving  swiftly  from  Jacobin 
to  Jacobin,  frightening,  cajoling,  bribing  with  prom- 
ises. Barras  had  gone  to  Josephine  de  Beauharnais. 

She  kept  him  waiting  an  hour  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  of  the  Rue  Chantereine  before  she  came  down. 
Then  she  was  daintily  elaborate  in  a  deshabille  of  lace. 
She  yawned  at  him.  "See  how  I  love  you,"  said  she. 
"For  I  hate  to  get  up  till  the  sun  goes  down."  She 
held  out  white  hands  to  him. 

Barras  took  them,  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  She 
resisted  enough  to  make  his  kiss  piquant.  "You  know 
how  to  be  a  woman,"  said  he. 

Josephine  freed  herself,  and  pruned  her  disordered 
feathers.  "Ouf !  men  are  hard,"  she  said. 

"All  alike?"  Barras  grinned. 

"If  they  had  not  different  faces  one  would  not  know 
them  apart." 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  taking  some  one  else  for  me 
last  night." 

"How  then?"  Josephine's  eyes  were  round  in  honest 
innocence.  "What,  the  little  soldier  man?  But,  my 
friend,  he  is  mad,  quite  mad !" 

"That  was  love,  my  dear^"  Barras  grinned. 

"He  said  he  was  force — force" — she  tried  to  imitate 
the  brazen  ring  of  Bonaparte's  voice — "and  I  was  the 
matter  of  life!  Ouf!"  she  shuddered  daintily. 

"All  love,  my  dear,"  quoth  Barras. 

"Then  I  know  nothing  about  love."  She  lay  back 
in  luxurious  ease,  smiling  at  him.  "And  do  you  think 
that,  my  friend?" 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  121 

Barras  came  and  kissed  her  nose.  "I  think  you  are 
a  charming  toy,  my  dear.  But  one  cannot  always 
play."  He  stood  over  her,  and  his  dark  face  set  into 
serious  cunning.  "Listen  now,  my  dear." 

Josephine  pouted.  "But  I  hate  to  listen  when  I  am 
told  to." 

"Do  you  want  to  listen  to  your  head  falling  into  the 
basket?" 

Josephine  shuddered,  and  grew  pale.  "You  are  hor- 
rible," she  said,  "and  I  hate  you."  She  turned  her  back 
on  him. 

"If  you  are  wise,"  said  Barras  thoughtfully,  "there 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  guillotined." 

Josephine  began  to  cry.  "You  are — you  are  per- 
fectly— horrible. " 

"It  is  only  necessary  to  love  this  Captain  Cannon  a 
little." 

Josephine  started  round  in  amazement,  her  handker- 
chief half-way  to  her  wet  eyes.  "Love  him?"  she 
gasped.  "I  should  not  know  how.  He  is  mad.  He 
frightens  me  horribly." 

Barras  tapped  her  shoulder.  "Listen,  my  dear.  Do 
you  want  to  die  ?  Our  Bilious,  our  Robespierre,  he  wants 
more  blood.  It  is  now  Tallien  and  Our  Lady  of  Tallien 
and  me  and  all  our  dear  friends.  Well,  we  do  not  want 
to  oblige  him  by  dying.  But  he  has  the  power,  not  we. 
We  want  a  soldier  to  save  us,  and  our  little  Captain 
Cannon  is  the  man.  He  will  not  stand  on  ceremony.  He 
can  make  men  fight.  But  he  is  not  the  man  to  do  things 
without  pay.  Well,  you  can  pay  him,  my  dear.  Love 
him  a  little,  and  save  your  pretty  neck  and  mine." 

Josephine,  who  was  crying  gently  at  the  thought 
that  any  one  should  be  so  unkind  as  to  kill  her,  pro- 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 


tested  again.     "But  I  do  not  know  how  to  love  him." 

Barras  laughed.  "Pretend,  then.  You  know  how  to 
do  that,  my  dear.  Come,  do  not  be  a  fool!  It  is  life 
or  death  for  you  and  me.  He'll  not  eat  you.  One  man 
is  much  like  another." 

"He  is  not,"  Josephine  wailed.  "What  am  I  to  do 
with  him?" 

Barras  still  laughed.  "If  you've  forgot  how  you 
make  love  to  a  man,  I  remember.  Write  him  a  pretty 
letter." 

So,  tearful,  reluctant,  Josephine  wrote  her  first  love 
letter  to  Bonaparte.  Barras  dictated  it. 

They  had  nearly  done  when  Tallien  broke  in,  red 
faced,  his  fox-coloured  hair  awry.  "Barras  !  Ah,  here 
you  are  at  last!  Do  you  know  what  the  Bilious  has 
done  now?  Therese  is  arrested!"  Therese  was  his 
wife. 

Barras  whistled. 

"Therese  !"  Josephine  screamed.  "Oh,  my  dear  The- 
rese, what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

Barras  turned  on  her.  "Unless  you  want  your  dear 
Therese's  head  to  play  balls  with  yours,  be  a  little  fer- 
vent to  our  Captain  Cannon." 

And  so  that  strange  love  letter  ended  in  a  most 
agitated  hand  thus: 

"Come  to  me,  then.  You  spoke  to  my  heart  last 
night.  I  am  a  friend  who  loves  you. 

"VEUVE  BEAUHAENAIS." 

"For  our  little  Corsican  gunner,"  Barras  explained 
to  the  fuming  Tallien.  "Finish  —  Josephine.  I  will  see 
that  he  has  it.  Come,  Tallien  !"  and  he  thrust  the  let- 
ter into  his  pocket  and  drew  Tallien  away.  "It  is  per- 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  123 

haps  a  mistake  of  the  Bilious,"  he  said  coolly.  "There 
are  many  men  beside  you  who  love  Our  Lady  of  Tal- 
lien." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  her  husband  with  some 
relief. 

It  was  for  that  Robespierre  condemned  her.  When 
Bonaparte  left  him  with  hate  and  suspicion  spurred  to 
rage  in  his  soul,  his  first  purpose  was  to  have  Tallien 
arrested.  He  hated  Tallien  for  a  fop  who  joked,  a 
soft-hearted  traitor  who  had  guillotined  but  three  hun- 
dred of  all  the  guilty  citizens  of  Bordeaux.  But  Tal- 
lien's  wife  he  hated  more.  The  dark  Diana  with  her 
cult  of  loveliness  and  luxury  and  woman's  grace — in 
her  was  the  strongest  foe  of  his  grim,  murderous  rule. 
Womanhood  and  the  power  of  womanhood  were  bit- 
terly alien  to  the  Terror.  He  saw  that  dimly,  the 
little  fanatic  of  theories,  and  at  Madame  Tallien,  the 
leader  of  womanhood,  he  struck. 

So,  too,  he  would  punish  Tallien  with  worse  than 
death.  If  Tallien  bore  it  meekly — well.  He  might  per- 
haps be  pardoned.  If  he  dared  rebel,  he  also  must  die, 
after  the  pleasure  of  feeling  his  wife's  death.  That 
punishment  would  be  exquisite.  Robespierre  was  a 
connoisseur  in  emotions. 

Tallien,  whatever  he  was,  was  not  that.  He  stormed 
into  Robespierre's  room  snorting  with  decent,  honest 
wrath.  "You  have  arrested  my  wife,  Robespierre !"  he 
thundered.  Robespierre  blinked  at  him,  did  not  trouble 
to  deny  it.  "What  is  the  charge,  then  ?" 

"That  we  shall  hear  at  the  trial,  Tallien." 

Tallien  roared  a  great  oath.  "Trial?  Little  Bilious, 
do  not  think  she  will  ever  come  to  trial!  I  will  raise 
France  upon  you.  I  will  bring  the  army  against  you. 


124  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

By  my  soul,  I  will  move  the  world  to  crush  you."  He 
stopped,  panting,  inarticulate.  "For  the  last  time, 
Robespierre !  Set  her  free,  and  I  will  spare  you." 

Robespierre  blinked  at  him. 

"For  the  last  time,  then,  farewell.  You  have  chosen 
death,  little  Bilious.  So  be  it!"  He  went  down  the 
stairs,  thundering. 

Le  peuple  en  ce  jour  sans  cesse  repete 

Ah!  fa  iral  fa  ira!  fa  ira! 
Suivant  les  maximes  de  I'Evangile 

Ah!  fa  ira!  fa  ira!  fa  ira! 
Du  legislateur  tout  s'accomplira 
Et  qui  s'abaisse  on  I'elevera 

Ah!  fa  ira!  fa  ira!  fa  ira! 

To  that  tune  the  old  regime  had  died;  now  it  rang 
for  the  master  of  the  Terror. 

Robespierre  gave  a  little  shrug  of  one  shoulder.  He 
was  not  afraid.  But  something  in  Tallien's  fervour 
startled  his  mind.  It  would  be  well  to  make  sure  of 
the  army.  He  turned  to  the  table  and  wrote  a  letter 
to  that  Chief  of  Brigade  at  Sablons.  Then  he  went 
to  council  with  his  brother  and  St.  Just  and  Henriot, 
the  commandant  of  gendarmes. 

All  that  day,  Tallien,  his  fox-hair  bristling  in  dis- 
order, hurried  from  man  to  man,  ardent,  persuasive, 
inspired.  He  had  Barras,  that  great  manager  of  men, 
to  help  him,  and  Carnot  dealing  with  the  graver 
souls. 

In  his  tent  at  Sablons  Bonaparte  had  two  letters. 
With  one  Robespierre  announced  his  intention  of  mov- 
ing that  arrears  of  clothing  and  pay  be  made  up  to  the 
army  at  once,  and  begged  the  Chief  of  Brigade  to  call 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  125 

on  him.  Bonaparte  smiled.  "It  appears  things  march 
in  Paris,"  said  he,  and  turned  to  his  other  letter. 

Then  the  keen  eyes  flamed,  and  his  brow  was  dark 
and  hot.  He  started  up,  shouting  for  his  horse.  .  .  . 

Josephine  lay  easily  on  a  couch,  the  glory  of  her 
womanhood  veiled  in  white.  Beneath  her  bosom  was  a 
band  of  crimson.  Diamonds  sparkled,  half  hidden,  in 
her  black  hair,  and  the  red  light  of  rubies  came  from 
the  white  hollow  below  her  neck.  In  her  wide,  dark 
eyes,  on  her  full  lips,  was  that  mocking  mysterious 
smile.  Away  by  the  door  stood  Bonaparte,  the  little 
dingy  man,  his  great  gaunt  brow  dark  with  passionate 
blood — stood  still  as  a  man  of  bronze.  .  .  .  Then 
darted  across  the  room  and  fell  on  his  knee  beside  her 
couch  and  flung  his  arm  across  her  bosom  and  held  her 
hard  while  his  eyes  glared  grey  light.  "My  love,  my 
life!"  he  cried  harshly. 

Josephine's  smile  died.  She  flushed  and  turned  her 
head  away,  and  looked  at  him  again  and  turned  again. 
"Oh,  but  you  hurt  me !"  she  complained. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "My  beautiful,  my  sweet,  my 
incomparable,  love  must  hurt,  such  love  as  ours,  and 
still  we  would  be  hurt  more,  and  the  hurt  is  joy."  He 
grasped  her  against  him  with  passionate  strength,  he 
covered  her  arm  with  fierce  hot  kisses. 

Josephine  tried  to  draw  herself  away.  "Oh,  but 
you  must  not !"  she  protested.  "It  is  not  right  of  you ! 
Indeed  you  must  not!" 

"You  are  mine,  mine  altogether,  mine  eternally!" 
cried  Bonaparte. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  think  it  is  like  that!"  said  Josephine. 

"You  love  me.  I  have  it  in  your  hand — that  beau- 
tiful, that  gracious  hand" — he  crushed  it  against  his 


126  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

lips — "this  wrote  that  you  love.  There  is  but  one  way 
to  love  me.  I  will  show  you.  Come!"  He  was  draw- 
ing her  to  lie  upon  his  breast. 

"But  no ! — but  no !"  cried  Josephine.  "I  should  not 
like  to." 

"Come  to  me!  You  are  mine!  I  give  you  all  the 
need  of  a  woman  and  all  the  world  beside.  Ah,  I  will 
show  you  how  a  man  can  love !"  He  grasped  her  to  his 
breast,  his  breath  on  her  lips,  the  glaring  light  of  his 
eyes  dazzling  her.  She  had  no  words,  no  power  left. 
She  was  still  and  limp  in  his  arms.  "Kiss  me  now! 
Kiss  me  your  love!"  he  bade  her,  and  she  answered 
his  greedy,  burning  lips — Josephine's  facile  kisses. 
Then  suddenly  he  flung  her  away  from  him,  and 
she  fell  back  all  disordered  on  the  couch.  "Ah,  no, 
do  not  kiss  me!"  he  cried.  "Your  kisses  burn  my 
blood." 

Josephine,  patting  at  her  tumbled  dress,  stared  at 
him  as  a  child  might  at  a  madman.  "You  are  very 
unreasonable,"  said  Josephine. 

"Why  are  you  so  lovely?"  cried  Bonaparte.  "What 
is  your  strange  power  ?  Oh,  you  tear  my  heart !  You 
intoxicate  my  soul !"  He  buried  his  face  in  her  bosom. 
Then  looked  up  at  her,  his  lank  hair  tumbled  wildly 
over  his  flushed  face  and  fierce,  steel  eyes.  "Ah,  you 
are  womanhood  itself  as  I  am  manhood,  and  we  surge 
together  and  meet  in  flame." 

"You  will  not  let  me  be  guillotined,  will  you?"  said 
Josephine. 

"You!"  he  cried,  and  the  bronze  voice  rang.  "Who 
dares  think  of  your  death?  I  would  save  you  from  all 
the  world  in  arms.  I  would  keep  you  against  heaven 
and  hell,  you,  my  love,  that  I  need!" 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  127 

"But  Robespierre  is  very  horrible,"  said  Josephine. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "Robespierre?  Is  it  a  thing 
of  paste-board  like  him  could  touch  my  wife?" 

"Oh,  I  could  not  possibly  be  that!"  cried  Josephine. 
"I  am  not  at  all  like  you,  you  know.  And  we  should 
both  be  very  unhappy  because  I  should  always  be 
afraid." 

"Afraid  of  love?  Afraid  of  passion?  Josephine, 
incomparable  Josephine,  I  will  give  fire  to  your  soul 
till  it  burns  white  hot  in  one  flame  with  mine.  Love, 
love,  I  will  give  you  love  till  you  are  drunk  with  it 
as  I." 

"You  are  certainly  very  puzzling,"  said  Josephine. 

"But  you,  my  marvellous  Josephine,  you  are  madden- 
ing— ah,  yes,  maddening."  He  clasped  her  waist. 
"Your  dark  eyes  have  the  mad  mystery  of  life." 

"Our  Captain  Cannon  appears  to  have  chosen  his 
side."  It  was  Barras's  humorous  voice.  Bonaparte 
started  up,  dishevelled  and  dark  and  swearing.  "Ten 
thousand  pardons,"  said  Barras.  "I  discompose  the 
citizeness."  But  Josephine  did  not  appear  discom- 
posed. Only  relieved.  "Well,  my  Captain  Cannon, 
you  surprise  me  devilishly.  But  I  am  glad  to  find  you. 
You  are  with  us  then?" 

"I  am  with  who  pays  me,  citizen,"  quoth  Bonaparte. 

"Oh,  but  you  promised  you  would  save  me!"  cried 
Josephine. 

"Be  easy,  my  heart,"  said  Bonaparte,  over  his  shoul- 
der. "You  are  Bonaparte's.  You  are  safe  already. 
Well,  will  you  pay  me,  citizen?"  .  .  .  Barras  made  no 
bid.  .  .  .  "My  price  then — my  price  is  to  be  commis- 
sioned General  of  the  Army  of  Italy." 

Barras  gave  a  great  laugh  of  relief.     He  had  been 


128  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

afraid  of  a  demand  for  money.  Commissions  cost 
nothing.  "Oh,  for  that!"  says  he,  with  a  snap  of  his 
fingers,  "stand  by  us  against  Robespierre  and — Gen- 
eral of  the  Army  of  Italy,  I  salute  you!" 

"Salute  me  in  writing,"  said  Bonaparte. 

So  upon  Josephine's  heavily  scented  paper  Barras 
promised  to  secure  Napoleon  Bonaparte  the  Italian 
command.  Then,  "Good!"  he  said.  "Come  to  me  at 
Tallien's  to-night  and  we  will  arrange  for  our  Bilious. 
Now  permit  me  two  words  with  the  citizeness." 

Josephine  started  up  with  alacrity  and  led  the  way 
to  another  room.  Then,  Barras  drew  her  to  him  and 
kissed  her.  "You  have  done  well,  my  pretty,"  said  he. 

"But  I' don't  know  what  I  have  done," said  Josephine. 
"He  wants  to  marry  me." 

"What  a  fool !"  said  Barras,  and  laughed  and  kissed 
her  again. 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  said  Josephine  plaintively. 
"He  is  very  absurd,  you  know,  and  I  am  very  afraid 
of  him.  But  he  means  to  marry  me.  I  know  he  does. 
Oh,  cannot  you  take  him  away?" 

Barras  shook  his  head  slowly.  .  .  .  His  cunning 
mind  was  considering  the  affair.  The  little  Corsican 
was  a  good  soldier,  and  might  often  be  useful.  He 
was  infatuated  with  Josephine  ?  Good !  Let  Josephine 
wed  him,  and  in  bondage  to  her  he  would  be  in  bondage 
to  Barras.  ...  So  little  did  the  great  manager  of 
men  understand  Bonaparte.  .  .  .  "Well,  my  dear," 
said  Barras,  tapping  her  cheek,  "marry  him !" 

Josephine  shuddered  all  over.  "Oh,  but  I  thought 
you  loved  me!"  she  wailed. 

Barras  kissed  her.  "You  are  a  charming  toy,  my 
dear,"  said  he.  "Mind  you  amuse  Captain  Cannon." 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  129 

"I  think  you  are  very  unkind,"  said  Josephine,  and 
began  to  cry.  But  Barras  was  gone. 

She  bathed  her  eyes  carefully  before  she  went  back 
to   Bonaparte.  .  .  As   soon   as  she  was  in   the  room 
he  sprang  at  her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.     "In- 
comparable Josephine !"  he  cried.     "Ah,  you  are  mine ! 
—you  are  mine!" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Josephine. 

Bonaparte  grasped  her  till  she  was  breathless,  kiss- 
ing her  again  and  again.  "Mine,  mine — mine  for  ever 
in  the  fierce  union  of  love.  Ah,  love  me  well,  Josephine, 
or  my  soul  must  die!  Love  me  well!  Sweetest,  most 
beautiful,  incomparable!  Ah,  be  less  lovely,  that  I 
may  love  you  less !  Mine,  my  life,  soul  of  my  soul ! 
Rest  now,  rest  in  the  arms  of  my  love.  I  go  to  earn 
glory  for  you!" 

Off  he  went — to  Ilobespierre. 

He  persuaded  that  most  suspicious  of  mortal  men 
that  he  might  count  upon  the  allegiance  of  the  army, 
then  hurried  off  to  arrange  for  his  overthrow. 

It  was  a  night  of  intrigue.  Robespierre  was  busy 
and  his  brother  and  Henriot.  Tallien  and  Barras  and 
their  friends  had  no  rest  till  dawn  was  near.  So  they 
panted  through  the  hot  night  in  Paris.  Where  the 
breath  of  the  hay  was  on  the  air,  out  at  Sablons,  the 
little  brigadier  wrote  ten  lines  of  orders  for  the  mor- 
row and  lay  down  to  dream  of  Josephine. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  Convention  met,  each  man 
looked  in  wonder  at  his  neighbour.  They  were  both 
alive  then  as  yet,  and  free.  Who  knew  how  long?  A 
ghastly  silence  reigned  in  the  hall.  The  air  was  heavy 
on  their  eyes,  and  unhealthy.  Now  Robespierre  was 
mounting  the  tribune — Robespierre  in  the  sky-blue  coat 


130  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

and  nankeen  trousers  he  used  for  to  make  god.  Robes- 
pierre was  speaking.  It  was  the  old  tune — Liberty, 
Humanity:  Humanity,  Liberty:  Supreme  Being,  Re- 
publican Virtue:  Traitors  to  Fraternity, — the  old 
dreary  cant.  And  working  to  the  old  end :  Traitors  to 
Fraternity,  to  Sacred  Fraternity,  for  them  the  tum- 
bril, the  guillotine!  But  now  men  look  at  each  other 
and  mutter.  ...  It  is  true  then.  .  .  .  He  does  want 
more  blood  then.  .  .  .  Whose  now?  .  .  .  Not  mine,  by 
God! — not  mine.  .  .  . 

The  thin  voice  scrapes  on:  "In  the  name  of  the 
Divine  Principles  of  Republican  Virtue  I  assail  them, 
I  accuse  them,  I " 

Tallien  is  up.  "You! — you!"  Tallien  is  shouting. 
"You,  the  tyrant !"  And  at  the  word  whole  ranks  roar 
out  their  fears.  "Citizens !"  Tallien  cries,  "if  the  Con- 
vention dare  not  strike  the  Tyrant,  then  I  dare — I!" 
and  be  plucks  out  a  dagger  and  makes  it  flash  in  the 
sunlight — his  wife's  dagger,  they  say.  At  the  gleam 
of  steel  break  forth  mad  shouts :  "Tyranny ! — tyranny ! 
Down  with  the  Tyrant!  Death! — death!"  and  Robes- 
pierre's friends  try  to  roar  them  down  and  fail,  and 
Robespierre  struggles  with  words,  and  President  Thu- 
riot  clangs  his  bell,  and  all  is  chaos  till  there  is  froth 
upon  his  pale  lips,  and  his  voice  cracks  and  fails.  And 
when  they  are  all  mad  with  their  own  din,  "Accusa- 
tion!" Tallien  roars.  "Decree  of  accusation!"  and 
swiftly  the  decree  is  passed,  and  Robespierre  accused — 
Robespierre  and  his  brother  and  Couthon  the  cripple 
and  St.  Just  and  Le  Bas.  They  are  condemned,  they 
are  packed  away.  With  wondering  relief  the  members 
go  off  home.  It  has  been  so  easy  after  all. 

Arm  in  arm,  drunk  with  success,  Tallien  and  Barras 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  131 

came  to  Tallien's  house,  and  there  they  gave  Bonaparte 
boisterous  greeting,  and  drank  deep  and  roared  at  him 
the  stupid  jokes  of  victory.  ...  In  the  midst  of  their 
mirth  the  bells  clang  from  every  steeple,  and  they  hear 
the  roll  of  drums.  Tallien  is  away  in  a  frenzy  to  find 
out  what  it  means,  and  Barras  rushes  after  him,  then 
turns  back  and  fires  nervous  questions  at  Bonaparte. 

"Enfin,"  says  Bonaparte  with  a  shrug,  and  says  no 
more. 

Tallien  comes  back,  and  breathless,  frantic,  blurts 
out  his  tale.  The  turnkeys,  Robespierre's  creatures, 
would  not  take  Robespierre  into  prison.  And  Robes- 
pierre is  free,  and  sits  at  the  Town  Hall  devising  mas- 
sacre, and  Henriot  has  brought  all  the  gendarmes  to 
help  him,  and  the  Town  Hall  is  fortified,  and  the  mob 
of  Paris  is  packed  about  it  yelling  for  the  blood  of 
Robespierre's  foes.  What  to  do  now? — what  to  do? 

Bonaparte  beckons  to  his  adjutant,  one  Murat,  and 
Murat  is^gone  riding  as  only  Murat  can  ride,  thunder- 
ing through  that  turbulent  summer  eve. 

Barras  had  an  inspiration  then.  Barras  would  call 
the  Convention  together  again.  A  great  deed !  Bona- 
parte shrugged  his  shoulders  and  stretched  himself  out 
in  Tallien's  easy-chair  and  went  to  sleep. 

But  indeed  the  Convention  had  called  itself  together. 
At  the  sound  of  those  alarm  bells,  at  the  tidings  of 
Robespierre's  mob,  the  good  souls  ran  in  panic  to  their 
hall.  Like  sheep  they  felt  safer  together.  Like  sheep 
they  crowded  together  against  danger.  In  a  moment 
they  voted  Robespierre  and  his  men  outlaws,  they  sent 
missionaries  into  the  streets  to  preach  the  crowds  to 
their  side,  they  named  Barras  general.  And  Barras, 
that  great  general,  ran  off  to  Bonaparte  and  shook 


132  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

him  out  of  sleep:  "One  may  act  now,  Captain  Can- 
non !"  he  cried.  "The  Convention  has  declared  him  out- 
law." 

Bonaparte  yawned  at  him,  then  stretched  himself, 
and  lounged  to  the  window  and  put  out  his  head.  Still 
the  bells  were  pealing,  and  the  drums  beat  and  the  mob 
was  roaring.  The  hot,  heavy  air  was  fraught  with 
sound.  Bonaparte  shrugged  again.  "I  also  shall  have 
to  make  a  noise,  citizens,"  said  he,  and  he  smiled  at 
the  night.  .  .  .  Now  horsemen  came  clattering  up  the 
street,  a  half  troop  of  cavalry.  Bonaparte  ran  out 
and  sprang  to  the  saddle  of  his  white  charger  and 
rode  off  in  the  midst. 

In  the  Place  de  Greve  before  the  Town  Hall  was 
packed  all  the  scoundreldom  of  Paris,  all  the  fanatics 
of  Fraternity,  all  the  madmen  who  loved  and  throve  on 
the  blood-streams  of  the  Terror,  all  who  made  it  help 
them  to  blackmail  and  rapine  and  lust — all  were 
thronged  there  with  Henriot's  rascally  gendarmes,  a 
huge  crowd  armed  with  plentiful  strange  weapons  ugly 
to  see. 

Their  yells  went  up  to  the  star-spangled  black  sky. 
At  a  window  of  the  Town  Hall,  between  torches,  stood 
Robespierre,  livid  in  the  smoky  light.  He  had  a  speech 
to  make,  of  course.  The  thin,  dull  stream  of  cant 
poured  out  once  more.  Liberty,  Humanity:  Human- 
ity, Liberty :  Supreme  Being :  Sacred  Fraternity.  .  .  . 
Through  his  thin 'voice  came  the  clatter  of  steel. 

Horsemen  were  moving  along  the  quay.  A  line  of 
cuirasses  glinted  pale  in  the  gloom.  "The  army! — the 
army !"  men  roared,  and  the  crowd  swayed  to  and  fro. 
"Be  at  ease!"  Robespierre  screamed.  "They  are  our 
friends — our  brothers.  They  come  to  join  us.  Salute, 


The  Crowd  Withstood  and  Struck  Back  with  Clubs 
and  Pikes  and  Knives 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  133 

my  brothers ! — salute !"  He  flung  out  his  arms  to  the 
cuirassiers.  He  was  very  grateful  to  Bonaparte. 

But  those  cuirassiers  took  no  heed  of  him.  They 
defiled  orderly  into  the  Place  de  Greve,  while  the  crowd 
gave  them  room  and  welcome.  The  cuirassiers  were 
silent.  Bonaparte's  brazen  voice  spoke:  "Citizens,  to 
your  homes !  Robespierre  is  outlaw !  To  your  homes, 
citizens !"  Then  Robespierre  screamed  wild  words  from 
his  window  and  fell  into  a  frenzy. 

The  cuirassiers  spurred  their  horses  against  the 
amazed  crowd  and  struck  with  the  flat  of  the  sword, 
roaring,  "Give  room ! — give  room !  To  your  homes !" 
But  once  the  first  shock  was  spent  the  crowd  withstood 
and  struck  back  with  clubs  and  pikes  and  knives, 
and  pistols  flashed,  and  the  cuirassiers  were  in  evil 
case.  .  .  . 

At  the  corner  by  the  quay  Bonaparte  sat  his  white 
horse,  and  his  eyes  were  steady  on  the  fight.  .  .  . 
Robespierre  gibbered  and  raved  from  on  high.  .  .  . 

Now  the  crowd  had  the  upper  hand,  now  the  cuiras- 
siers were  beaten  back.  .  .  .  Along  the  quay  came  at 
the  double  two  companies  of  grenadiers,  along  the  quay 
the  jingle  and  clank  and  rumble  of  guns.  Masked 
by  the  grenadiers,  three  guns  unlimbered  and  trained 
upon  the  crowd. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  them  once  over  his  shoulder,  and 
said  a  word  to  the  trumpeter  at  his  side.  The  trumpet 
sounded.  The  cuirassiers  broke  out  of  the  crowd,  and 
as  it  surged  after  them,  yelling,  the  grenadiers  fell 
away  from  before  the  guns  and  the  night  was  rent  in 
yellow  flame. 

Grapeshot  blasted  wide  roads  of  death  through  the 
heart  of  the  crowd,  and  before  there  was  time  to  flee 


134  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

the  guns  swung  a  little,  and  flashed  and  roared  again, 
and  slew.  It  was  enough.  Shrieking  in  mad  panic, 
the  crowd  of  scoundrels  turned  and  fought  each  other 
in  their  haste  to  be  gone.  The  cuirassiers  swept  the 
square  as  a  wave  sweeps  a  castle  of  sand  away.  .  .  . 

Over  wounded  and  slain  the  grenadiers  marched  to 
the  Town  Hall  and  broke  in  to  seize  Robespierre.  They 
found  him — found  him  with  a  ghastly  wound  in  the 
jaw.  He  had  tried  to  kill  himself,  and  missed  his  aim. 
They  bound  up  the  wound  roughly  to  save  him  alive 
for  the  guillotine.  They  dragged  him  out  in  his 
agony.  By  the  lantern  light  in  the  doorway  he  saw 
Bonaparte.  He  jerked  his  guards  back,  and  stood 
glaring  into  Bonaparte's  brow.  His  mangled  face 
worked  horribly.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  wild  hate 
gripped  him.  .  .  .  But  he  was  ended.  Fanatic  of 
forms  and  theories,  he  had  met  the  stark  force  of 
reality.  .  .  .  Bonaparte  considered  him  with  grave, 
merciless  eyes.  He  babbled  a  little  like  a  babe.  Then 
they  hurled  him  on  and  packed  him  on  a  tumbril.  In 
the  sky-blue  coat  he  had  worn  to  make  god  he  was 
borne  tortured  to  death.  The  summer  dawn  was  break- 
ing as  he  went. 

The  Reign  of  Terror  was  done.  General  of  things 
as  they  are,  Bonaparte  had  driven  the  fanatics  down 
to  death.  His  guns  blasted  the  abstractions  away,  and 
the  worship  of  them  and  the  slaughter  for  their  sake. 
He  had  conquered,  general  of  human  force  and  human 
love. 

He  was  away  to  the  Rue  Chantereine — away  with 
his  glory  to  Josephine.  He  had  her  in  his  arms,  beau- 
tiful and  tremulous,  his  eyes  blazed  into  hers:  "Love, 
my  queen,  my  goddess,  soul  of  my  soul,  give  me  my 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  135 

prize!  Always — always  the  conqueror  while  you  love 
me.  The  first  of  an  eternity  of  victories !  Ah,  I  bind 
my  laurels  about  your  white  brow.  I  pour  my  glories 
into  your  sweet  bosom.  Give  me  love,  my  Josephine, 
only  love.  For  you  I  conquered.  For  you  I  will  con- 
quer ever.  Heart  of  my  soul,  it  was  for  you  I  fought. 
For  you  the  victory  and  its  glory  and  fruit.  That  is 
the  purpose  of  my  life — to  glorify  you — to  exalt  you 
among  women — to  bring  you  honour  and  power  and 
joy.  My  sweet,  my  incomparable,  I  am  the  messenger 
of  gladness  to  you.  In  your  joy  only  can  I  know  joy. 
Give  me  love  then!  .  .  .  Ah,  soul  of  my  soul,  let  the 
fragrant  lips  speak!  Tell  me! — tell  me!" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Josephine. 

He  crushed  her  on  his  heart.  He  crushed  her  lips 
beneath  his. 

Josephine  was  a  little  pleased. 


A  bride  of  a  month,  Josephine  walked  in  her  garden 
at  Malmaison.  It  was  near  the  end  of  Fructidor,  and 
the  roses  were  flowering  again.  She  plucked  a  white 
one  and  gave  it  to  Barras.  Barras  with  a  white  rose! 
But  Josephine  had  no  humour.  Barras  took  his  rose 
and  kissed  each  one  of  her  fingers.  Josephine  laughed. 
"But  you  are  a  naughty  citizen,"  said  Josephine. 
"You  forget  that  I  am  a  wife." 

"Why  should  I  remember  it?"  laughed  Barras. 

"It  is  certainly  not  amusing,"  said  Josephine,  with 
a  little  grimace.  "He  wants  so  much,  my  Captain 
Cannon.  Always  transports,  always  ecstasy.  You  do 
not  know  how  boring  ecstasy  is.  Happily  he  loves  his 
fighting.  If  he  did  nothing  but  love  me  I  should  be 


136  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

mad.  But  he  is  often  with  that  good  Carnot,  or  by 
himself  planning  his  campaign  in  Italy.  Poor  Italy ! 
If  it  finds  him  as  oppressive  as  I — oh !  My  soul  is  one 
with  his  in  the  flame  of  the  force  of  life.  He  talks  to 
me  like  that  at  breakfast.  Ouf!  Decidedly  he  is  a 
failure,  monsieur  my  husband." 

Barras  brushed  her  chin  with  a  full-blown  rose  so 
that  the  petals  fell  down  over  her  bosom.  "Decidedly, 
madame  his  wife  is  a  pleasing  toy,"  said  he. 

"Heigho !"  Josephine  sighed  lightly.  "But  a  wife 
is  a  broken  toy." 

"I'll  prove  you  you  are  not,"  said  Barras,  and 
slipped  his  arm  round  her  and  tilted  her  chin  upward, 
kissed  her  cheeks  and  her  mouth. 

She  let  him,  and  then  slipped  gracefully  away;  and 
then  with  that  foolish,  light  laugh  of  hers,  "But  indeed 
you  are  a  naughty  citizen,"  said  she  gaily;  .  .  .  then 
the  mirth  froze  upon  her  whitening  face,  and  her  mouth 
opened  and  shut.  "Look!"  she  muttered.  Barras 
turned  to  see  Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte  stood  still,  his  big,  lean  face  livid,  the 
muscles  stark  and  quivering,  the  heavy  brow  drawn 
down  over  eyes  that  flashed  like  lances  of  flame.  Bar- 
ras changed  colour,  and  began  to  stammer  something. 
"Go!"  cried  Bonaparte,  and  his  voice  rang  back  from 
the  house  wall.  .  .  .  Barras  hesitated  with  blundering 
feet — plunged  away. 

Bonaparte  strode  to  Josephine  and  gripped  her 
wrists,  and  the  grey  fire  of  his  eyes  came  close  to  hers. 
She  trembled  and  shuddered,  and  turned  her  face  away 
and  began  to  cry.  "God !  how  I  loved  you !"  he 
groaned,  .  .  .  and  let  her  go. 

"I — I  think  you  are  very  unkind,"  Josephine  sobbed. 


HOW  HE  SOUGHT  LOVE  137 

Bonaparte  stared  away  through  the  mellow  sunlight. 

Josephine  cried  a  little  more.  Then  timidly  she  came 
close  to  him  and  laid  her  wet  cheek  on  his  shoulder: 
"Napoleon,  dear,"  she  said  softly,  "indeed  I  do  not 
love  him  one  bit " 

Bonaparte  started  from  her  and  faced  her,  dark  with 
passion.  "It  is  that  condemns  you !"  he  cried.  "If 
you  did  love  him — God,  I  might  honour  you  still !"  He 
caught  her  arms  again.  "What  are  you?  What  is 
the  use  of  you?  He  or  I — it  is  the  same.  You  give 
any  man  all  you  have,  and  that  is  nothing.  Caress — 
play — for  you  there  is  no  more  in  life.  You  are  not  a 
woman.  You  have  no  power  to  love." 

"Oh,  but  I  am  your  wife,"  Josephine  wailed. 

Bonaparte  broke  into  peals  of  mad  laughter.  She 
stared  at  him  wondering,  then  hurried  fearful  away. 

Bonaparte  stood  alone  .  .  .  alone  as  the  sun  fell  to 
the  west  through  a  blood-red  sky  .  .  .  alone,  a  grim, 
dark  statue  against  the  stained  light.  .  .  .  "Tete 
d'armee,"  he  muttered  at  last,  "tete  d'armee,"  and  with 
a  groan  went  in  through  the  shadows. 


CHAPTER  V 

HOW    HE    SAW    HIS    STAE 

THEY  called  it  the  Army  of  Scarecrows  in  Nice. 
Officially  it  was  the  Army  of  Italy,  the  Army  of  Sol- 
diers of  Glory.  The  Army  of  Italy  was  sorry  for 
itself.  It  had  no  money,  and  only  a  few  trousers.  The 
wholesome  half  of  its  food  was  begged  or  stolen.  One 
man  out  of  three  was  in  the  tattered  hospital  tents. 
The  rest  shivered  under  the  mistral  and  the  winter  sky. 

There  was,  you  see,  a  necessity  that  M.  Barras  and 
his  comrades  of  the  Directory  in  Paris  should  have 
purple  and  fine  linen  for  their  women  and  sufficient  '79 
champagne  to  wet;  the  quails  with  truffles. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Army  of  Italy 
had  any  intention  of  fighting  for  M.  Barras.  The 
Army  of  Italy  (which  had  not  yet  contrived  to  get  into 
Italy)  was  firm  in  its  purpose  not  to  fight  at  all. 
They  were  no  cowards,  those  ragged  skeletons,  but  they 
had  had  enough  of  war.  In  the  first  fine  frenzy  of  the 
Revolution  they  had  sprung  to  arms  to  drive  the  Aus- 
trian from  the  soil  of  France.  After  four  years'  work 
the  Austrian  was  gone,  and  the  scarecrows  of  the  Army 
of  Italy  did  not  want  to  go  after  him.  They  wanted 
four  years'  pay.  That  was  the  only  reason  why  they 
did  not  disband  themselves  and  seek  each  his  own  home- 
stead. There  was  no  general  to  keep  them  back.  Poor 
M.  Scherer — it  would  be  sarcastic  to  call  him  general — 
had  given  them  up  in  despair.  He  made  them  a  speech 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  139 

of  farewell.  It  was  impossible,  he  cried,  to  do  any- 
thing with  such  an  army  as  they  were.  They  cheered 
lustily.  A  sense  of  humour  was  all  they  had  left. 

You  see  them,  a  wretched  mass  of  humanity,  on  the 
hills  above  Nice.  They  are  huddled  together  in  shel- 
ter-holes dug  to  hold  a  company  packed  close. 
Here  and  there  rises  the  thin  smoke  of  a  fire,  but 
nearly  all  the  trees  have  been  cut  down,  and  wood 
is  as  scarce  as  meat.  Shaggy,  ragged  skeletons  all, 
they  are  gay  enough.  You  can  watch  them  play- 
ing knuckle-bones  with  an  onion  or  a  handful  of  lentils 
at  stake,  and  hear  them  singing  songs  which  even 
in  French  one  may  not  quote  concerning  their  officers. 
It  is  not  easy  to  be  an  officer  of  the  Army  of  Italy. 
No  one,  indeed,  sings  songs  of  Augereau  while  that 
large  man  is  by.  His  regiment  does  not  jest  much  with 
the  square-faced  Colonel  Moncade.  But  most  of  them 
— colonels,  brigadiers,  and  all — do  no  more  than  smile 
sourly  at  the  scandalous,  mutinous  doggerel.  Colonel 
Niort  there  even  joins  in  it.  He  likes  to  be  popular, 
that  lean,  handsome  Colonel  Niort. 

It  was  a  grey  day  of  February,  and  the  sea  stretched 
dull,  steel-blue  to  a  near  horizon.  Along  the  coast  road 
from  Oneglia  came  a  tiny  caravan  of  mules,  and  they 
turned  and  climbed  the  hills  to  the  Army  of  Italy.  A 
man  and  a  woman  rode  side  by  side,  both  too  dark  to 
be  of  Europe,  something  too  fair  to  be  of  East  or 
South.  In  the  man's  gaunt  face  pale  yellow  eyes 
fidgeted.  He  had  a  beard  that  was  twisted  into  tiny 
close-packed  curls.  He  wore  a  square  cap  of  black  fur, 
and  a  flowing  black  robe  that  was  edged  with  ermine. 
The  woman's  face  was  round  and  gay,  and  crimson  lips 
and  black  eyes  laughed  in  it  together.  She  was  all 


140  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

golden-brown  fur  and  crimson  velvet.  Behind  them  a 
grinning  black  boy  rode,  and  led  a  basket-laden  mule. 
The  man  and  the  woman  dismounted  lightly  and  left 
their  mules  with  the  black  boy  and  lightly  came  for- 
ward to  the  nearest  shelter-hole.  It  was  there  that 
Colonel  Niort  was  singing  choruses  with  his  regi- 
ment. Hard  by  Colonel  Moncade  scowled  at  him  and 
them. 

"O  happy  sons  of  men !"  cried  the  man,  "it  is  yours 
to  behold  Suleyman — Suleyman,  reincarnate  by  no 
mortal  sire  and  dam,  Suleyman  born  of  space  and 
time."  While  he  spoke  he  made  passes  in  the  air,  and 
from  the  empty  air  his  empty  hands  were  filled  with 
jewels  and  glittering  daggers.  These  he  waved  in  the 
air,  and  they  were  gone  again  and  his  hands  empty. 
"Out  of  the  void  came  all  things.  Into  the  void  all 
things  pass  again.  Only  the  soul  endures."  Up  into 
the  air  he  flung  a  rope,  and  it  stayed  stiff  and  straight 
as  a  tower.  "So  stands  the  soul  lord  of  all."  He 
beckoned  to  the  rope  and  it  bowed  and  fell  slowly  to 
his  feet.  "So  souls  obey  me  who  have  in  me  all  the 
wisdom  of  time." 

"But  there  is  never  a  soul  has  a  sou  for  you,"  cried 
one  of  the  wits  of  Colonel  Niort's  regiment. 

Suleyman  laughed.  "Lord  of  the  powers  of  the  earth 
and  sky,  what  need  I  of  your  money?  I  live  upon  air 
and  fire.  World  powers  toil  at  my  will.  See  life  born 
at  my  call.  Balkis !" 

The  woman  came  forward  smiling  and  began  to 
dance.  Through  a  whirl  of  crimson  robe  the  soldiers 
saw  a  delectable  form  of  womanhood  outlined  in  creamy 
white.  They  rose  at  her,  howling  in  glee.  Behind  her 
Suleyman  was  making  gestures  at  the  grey  sky.  Into 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  141 

his  empty  hands  came  a  bowl  of  earth.  He  set  it  down. 
He  clapped  his  hands,  and  they  were  full  of  wheat.  He 
planted  the  grains  carefully.  He  spoke  one  word  and 
Balkis  stopped  her  dance.  He  bent  over  the  bowl  and 
chanted.  She  came  and  danced  anew  round  it  and  him. 
Plain  to  see,  green  ears  broke  through  the  earth,  and 
rose,  and  rose.  Balkis  whirled  about  them,  lovely  in  a 
maze  of  crimson  and  white.  Suleyman  cried  aloud  and 
clapped  his  hands.  Balkis  stopped.  The  ears  stood 
golden  ripe. 

Suleyman  went  forward  with  them  to  Colonel  Niort. 
"A  little  harvest  for  M.  le  Colonel.  I  see  that  he  is 
eager  for  another." 

The  lean,  handsome  face  flushed.  "It  is  always  safe 
to  mean  nothing,  master  wizard,"  said  Colonel 
Niort. 

"That  is  what  one  does  in  love-making,  eh,  Monsieur 
le  Colonel?"  said  Suleyman,  and  his  yellow  eyes  set 
themselves  at  Colonel  Niort's.  "Shall  I  tell  you  what 
she  thinks  of  you?" 

"Perhaps  I  know,  master  wizard,"  said  Colonel 
Niort,  with  a  smile. 

"You  are  not  modest.  Perhaps  you  do.  She  thinks 
you  are  almost  irresistible. 

Colonel  Niort  laughed.  "If  I  had  anything  I  would 
give  you  something,"  said  he. 

"I  will  call  for  it  after  the  wedding,"  said  Suleyman, 
and  turned  away ;  in  doing  which  he  beheld  the  scowl- 
ing disapproval  of  Colonel  Moncade.  "Hola !  Another 
Monsieur  le  Colonel,  who  makes  love  with  a  sigh  and  a 
groan.  Well !  there  is  some  woman  to  like  each  man's 
way.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  she  thinks  of  you?" 

Colonel  Moncade  took  a  step  towards  him,  swearing. 


142  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Suleyman  met  him  calmly.  "Away  with  you,  hound!" 
cried  Colonel  Moncade. 

"She  wishes  you  were  irresistible,"  said  Suleyman 
calmly. 

Colonel  Moncade,  swearing  again,  raised  his  hand 
to  strike.  Suleyman  caught  it  in  a  grip  that  much 
surprised  the  honest  colonel,  who  stamped  his  foot  and 
cried  for  his  orderly.  "Name  of  a  dog!  Scourge  me 
this  hound " 

Colonel  Niort's  regiment  came  running  up  like  little 
boys  to  a  fight.  "Fairly,  softly!"  cried  one  and 
another.  "He  amuses  us.  We'll  keep  him  to  play 
with.  Scourge  your  own  men,  Moncade;"  and  they 
parted  the  wrathful  struggling  colonel  from  Suleyman, 
who  smiled  amiably  upon  him.  Moncade's  regiment 
came  to  its  colonel's  aid,  and  Niort's  men  plunged  at 
them  with  yells  of  joy.  Moncade,  swearing  volubly  at 
his  own  men  and  striking  generously,  was  getting  them 
in  hand,  was  drawing  them  away.  But  Niort  stood 
laughing  on  the  edge  of  the  fight,  and  mocked  at  his 
men  and  cheered  them  on.  Suleyman  had  slid  out  of 
it  and  away  to  his  mules  and  watched  with  calm  inter- 
est. And  chaos  grew,  and  officers  and  soldiers  fought 
together  like  beasts,  and  there  was  amazing  turmoil 
in  the  Army  of  Italy. 

A  man  on  a  white  horse  came  over  the  shoulder  of 
the  hill.  There  was  not  much  of  him,  muffled  close 
in  that  grey  overcoat.  He  rode  clumsily.  But  the 
wintry  light  fell  across  a  face  of  gaunt  strength — a 
bronze  face,  combatant,  hungry.  From  beneath  the 
great  dome  of  brow  came  a  trenchant  grey  gleam  of 
steel.  There  were  half  a  dozen  horsemen  with  him,  but 
he  rode  before  them  alone. 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  145 

In  one  keen  flash  of  his  grey  eyes  he  saw  the  tumult, 
and  Colonel  Niort  amusing  himself  with  it.  He  pointed 
with  his  whip  at  Colonel  Niort:  "Is  that  thing  an 
officer?"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  rang  clear  through 
the  din. 

Colonel  Niort  started  like  an  animal  under  the  whip, 
and  strode  forward.  The  pushing,  fighting  regiments 
stayed  to  look. 

Bonaparte  rode  straight  at  Colonel  Niort,  spurring 
his  horse,  and,  not  to  be  trodden  down,  Colonel  Niort 
must  needs  draw  aside.  Full  into  the  press  of  those 
regiments  Bonaparte  rode,  and  now  his  voice  rang 
gaily :  "What,  my  children !  Would  you  eat  each 
other?  Then  you'll  all  have  an  indigestion,  I  swear. 
Come  then!  Heaven  for  all,  and  to  hell  with  the 
enemy !"  The  quarrelling  regiments  stood  apart  to 
gape  and  grin  at  this  strange  little  man  with  the  eyes 
that  stabbed.  He  rode  through  the  midst,  saluting 
them. 

Then  Suleyman  cried  aloud:  "Homage  of  worlds  to 
the  world-conqueror." 

Bonaparte  turned  in  his  saddle  swiftly.  "Who  said 
that?"  he  cried,  and  saw  Suleyman  salaam  and  salaam 
again.  One  moment  Bonaparte  lingered  staring  at 
him.  Then  he  turned  and  rode  on  to  the  hut  where 
Augereau  lived.  He  left  Colonel  Niort  and  Colonel 
Moncade  and  their  regiments  much  surprised  at  him 
and  themselves  and  each  other. 

Suleyman  mounted  his  mule  and  went  off  with  his 
wife  and  his  black  boy  and  his  baggage  to  Nice.  As 
they  rode  down  the  hill,  "I  think,"  said  Suleyman, 
"I  think  he  is  all  that  we  thought  him.  What, 
Balkis?" 


144  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Balkis  was  not  now  laughing.  "He  is  more,"  she 
said. 

"I  foresaw  profit  in  him,"  said  Suleyman. 

"He  makes  me  sad.     Like  a  storm,"  said  Balkis. 

Meanwhile  the  whisper  began  to  run  through  the 
regiments  that  the  little  man  in  the  grey  overcoat  was 
their  new  general.  There  was  laughter  in  the  Army  of 
Italy.  They  had  always  found  their  generals  good 
sport.  The  colonels  went  leisurely  off  to  see  what  the 
little  man  was  like.  Save  Colonel  Niort.  He  had  an 
urgent  affair  in  Nice. 

She  was  a  girl  to  whom  womanhood  had  come  soon, 
a  girl  deep-bosomed  and  strong,  with  full,  lazy  lips  and 
great,  dark,  dull  eyes.  They  brightened  a  little  to 
receive  Colonel  Niort.  Colonel  Niort's  manner  indi- 
cated that  he  was  aware  of  it.  She  was  entirely  at  her 
ease  on  that  gold  brocaded  couch  in  her  father's  splen- 
did salon,  and  she  shifted  her  primrose  skirts  graciously 
to  make  a  place  for  Colonel  Niort  at  her  side.  Then 
she  considered  him  gravely.  So  gravely  that  Colonel 
Niort  smiled,  and  "I  hope  I  find  favour  with  mademois- 
elle?" said  he. 

"I  do  not  know.  That  is  what  troubles  me,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Royou. 

"That  permits  me  to  hope  at  least,"  said  Colonel 
Niort. 

Mademoiselle  Royou  still  considered  him  gravely.  "I 
wonder  what  I  hope,"  she  said. 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,  you  have  not  to  hope,"  said 
Colonel  Niort  with  a  sigh.  "You  are  sure  of  love,  and 
because  you  are  sure  of  love  you  are  sure  of  happi- 
ness." 

"One  wants  to  love  as  well  as  be  loved,"  said  Mad- 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  145 

emoiselle  Royou,  "and  I  ...  do  not  know.  .  .  ."  She 
turned  from  Colonel  Niort,  but  was  still  wholly  calm. 

Colouel  Niort's  eyes  rested  on  the  gentle  surge  of 
her  bosom.  "Doubt  never  made  happiness,"  he  said 
softly. 

Again  she  gave  her  grave  eyes  to  his.  "You  are 
cleverer  than  I  am,"  she  said. 

From  Colonel  Niort  came  a  sad  little  laugh.  "What 
is  all  I  am  beside  you?"  he  said,  and  he  sighed. 

"You  make  me  feel  a  child,"  said  the  girl. 

"I  would  have  you  be  a  child  always,"  cried  Colonel 
Niort. 

It  was  the  wrong  note — for  the  ears  of  Mademoiselle 
Royou.  She  drew  herself  up.  "No.  I  am  not  like 
that,"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  and  rose  and  walked 
away  to  the  glass  alcove,  where  palms  and  myrtles 
stood  glossy  green. 

Colonel  Niort  followed  her.  Her  round  arms  of  ivory 
were  bare  from  above  the  dimples  at  the  elbow.  He 
put  his  hand  about  one,  and  she  started  and  faced  him, 
flushing  faintly,  with  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "Ninon,"  he 
said  hoarsely,  "ah,  Ninon,  you  make  my  soul  throb 
for  you." 

She  was  looking  into  his  eyes.  Easily,  lightly,  still 
her  bosom  rose  and  fell.  "I  do  not  know,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"Not  know  ?"  cried  Colonel  Niort ;  his  handsome  face 
was  dark  with  passion.  "How  can  I  tell  you?  How 
can  I  show  you?" 

He  drew  her  to  him.  She  did  not  resist.  Still  she 
looked  steadily  into  his  eyes.  "I  do  not  know  about 
myself,"  she  said. 

And  now  there  were  two  other  people  in  the  salon. 


146  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Her  father,  M.  Royou,  the  banker,  swarthy  and  stout, 
had  come  with  that  square-faced  Colonel  Moncade. 
Her  father  saw  her  with  Colonel  Niort,  and  grunted 
profusely.  "That  is  where  you  would  be,  Moncade,  if 
you  were  not — what  you  are,"  said  he,  and  grunting 
still  came  up  to  the  pair. 

Colonel  Niort  was  very  affable,  and  M.  Royou  was 
very  gruff  to  every  one,  and  Mademoiselle  Royou  was 
herself,  and  Colonel  Moncade  was  nothing  at  all  till  the 
two  soldiers  made  up  their  minds  to  go.  Then  Mad- 
emoiselle Royou  looked  at  her  father  fairly  in  that 
grave,  frank  way  of  hers.  "You  are  not  pleased  with 
me,  sir?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  not  a  fool,"  her  father  grunted. 

"Some  things  are  .  .  .  difficult,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Royou. 

Away  on  the  hills  General  Bonaparte  had  held  his 
first  levee.  It  was  in  Augereau's  hut,  where  one  pile  of 
dried  turves  made  the  chair  and  another  the  table. 
They  told  Augereau  that  a  new  general  had  come  and 
lodged  himself  there,  and  Augereau — that  magnificent 
animal — came  and  looked  the  little  man  up  and  down 
with  contempt.  Bonaparte  saluted  him  with  a  smile. 
"I  am  proud  to  serve  with  the  best  swordsman  in 
France,"  said  he. 

"Humph!  Of  course  you  have  heard  of  me,"  quoth 
Augereau,  and  the  curl  of  his  lip  added  that  no  one 
had  heard  of  Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte's  eyes  opened  a  little  wider.  For  a 
moment  of  silence  the  steel  light  clove  at  Augereau — 
who  stepped  back  a  pace.  "All  the  world  will  hear  of 
me,  and  of  those  who  fight  with  me,"  said  Bonaparte 
quietly. 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  147 

Augereau  stared.  Augereau  fidgeted;  seemed  to 
want  to  get  away  and  lack  the  power.  At  last,  "This 
is  a  devil  of  an  army,  you  know.  .  .  .  But  it  is  some- 
thing to  have  a  general,"  said  he. 

"Serve  me  as  I  serve  you  and  we  shall  do  enough," 
said  Bonaparte. 

Massena,  of  the  dark  Jewish  face,  came  limping  in. 
"There  is  a  new  general,  I  hear,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Ah, 
it  is  you.  Where  have  you  served?  In  a  drawing-room?" 

"In  a  school  where  I  learned  to  obey,  Massena."  The 
voice  rang,  and  the  brow  lowered  down  as  the  keen  eyes 
stabbed.  Must  I  teach  you?" 

Massena  shuffled  across  to  Augereau's  side.  "Teach 
the  army  and  you  may  teach  me,"  he  grumbled. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "I  will  teach  you  to  advance," 
he  said. 

The  two  looked  at  him  and  each  other.  "Have  you 
seen  this  damned  army?"  quoth  Massena. 

"I  will  see  it  to-morrow.  The  army  will  parade  at 
dawn." 

Massena  whistled.  Augereau  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"This  damned  army,"  Massena  grumbled,  "does  what 
it  likes  and  it  likes  to  do  nothing." 

Bonaparte  smiled:  he  said  nothing  at  all:  only  he 
looked  steadily  at  Massena  and  smiled,  till  the  grim 
mirth  of  those  grey  eyes  infected  Massena,  and  he  gave 
a  hoarse  chuckle.  .  .  . 

Brigadiers  and  colonels  made  their  way  to  the  little 
hut  and  inspected  their  new  general,  some  with  jeering 
politeness,  some  with  rough  scorn.  And  for  all  Bona- 
parte was  ready.  The  fierce  combatant  strength  of 
him  beat  them  down :  he  was  their  comrade  still.  They 
went  out  from  the  hut  a  little  dazed.  And  strange 


148  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

tales  of  the  new  general  began  to  run  through  the  army. 

When  they  were  all  gone  Bonaparte  called  about  him 
the  little  company  of  friends  that  he  had  brought  from 
Paris.  "Murat,  my  friend,  and  Junot,  you  can  talk. 
Go  and  talk  about  me.  Berthier,  you  will  be  my 
adjutant-general.  Learn  all  there  is  to  be  learnt  of 
this  mad  army."  Berthier  stared  hard  and  bit  his  nails, 
as  his  way  was.  Without  answering  he  sauntered  out. 

"And  you?"  said  Marmont. 

"I  am  going  to  be  myself,"  said  Bonaparte.  With 
Marmont  and  his  guard,  Jean  Dortan,  following  close, 
he  strode  away.  While  the  darkness  gathered  he  made 
himself  good  comrade  with  regiment  after  regiment, 
and  at  last,  coming  to  the  shelter-holes  of  Moncade's 
men,  "Have  you  room  for  one  more,  comrades  ?"  said  he. 

"Generals  sleep  in  generals'  quarters,"  some  one 
growled  from  the  gloom. 

"This  general  fares  as  his  comrades  fare.  Come, 
my  children,  give  room.  There  is  not  much  of  me  but 
my  head." 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  when  the  bugles  sounded 
for  parade  at  dawn  there  was  a  muster  of  scarecrows 
that  amazed  Massena.  A  great  part  of  the  army  had 
deigned  to  obey.  Many  a  regiment  had  lean  ranks,  but 
there  was  some  part  there  of  every  regiment  save  one — 
Colonel  Niort's.  Neither  Colonel  Niort  nor  any  of  his 
men  had  found  it  necessary  to  come.  In  each  regiment 
the  roll  was  called  and  the  absent  marked.  Berthier 
brought  the  parade  state  to  Bonaparte  .  .  .  and  Bona- 
parte, after  a  moment,  looked  up  to  ask:  "Colonel 
Niort  was  informed  of  the  order?"  Berthier  saluted. 
"I  am  sorry  for  Colonel  Niort — and  his  regiment," 
said  Bonaparte  quietly. 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  149 

Then  he  rode  his  white  charger  to  the  middle  of  the 
line:  "Soldiers!"  the  bronze  voice  rang,  "you  want 
everything.  I  come  to  show  you  the  way  to  win  it. 
We  commence  a  campaign  for  France,  for  freedom,  for 
ourselves.  All  shall  be  enriched  before  the  year's  end. 
Soldiers !  Follow  me  to  glory  and  wealth.  I  shall  not 
fail  you.  Do  not  fail  me."  There  was  a  vast  many- 
throated  cheer.  Bonaparte  touched  his  hat.  Then  he 
turned  to  Massena.  "Give  them  some  manoeuvres," 
said  he. 

So  Massena  played  tactics  with  the  Army  of  Italy  on 
the  level  ground  by  the  shore,  and  on  the  hills  above 
Colonel  Niort  and  his  regiment  and  other  malingerers 
jeered.  But  for  the  first  time  in  its  life  the  Army  of 
Italy  had  a  heart  in  it,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  Bona- 
parte's lips  as  he  rode  off  to  Nice. 

He  sought  the  banker,  M.  Royou.  You  see  the  two 
sitting  against  each  other:  Royou,  placid  and  stout, 
with  little  dark  eyes,  and  Bonaparte  lean,  fierce,  eager. 
"I  want  money,  M.  Royou,"  quoth  Bonaparte. 

M.  Royou  blinked  at  him.  "So  do  I,"  said  M. 
Royou. 

"Bah,  you  have  millions." 

"That  is  why  I  want  more,"  said  M.  Royou. 

"I  will  help  you  to  them.    Lend  to  me." 

M.  Royou  blinked  at  him  again.  "I  never  give," 
said  M.  Royou. 

Bonaparte  opened  his  coat  and  sat  more  easily. 
"Frankly,  M.  Royou,  I  have  never  paid  any  one  yet. 
But  no  one  will  ever  regret  having  done  a  kindness  to 
Bonaparte." 

M.  Royou  grunted.  "How  much  kindness  do  you 
want?" 


150  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs." 

M.  Royou  leant  back  in  his  chair — it  was  a  slow 
process — and  shut  his  eyes.  "I  never  knew  the  man 
worth  that,"  he  announced. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "Then  you  know  very  little  of 
me,  M.  Royou." 

M.  Royou  opened  his  eyes  suddenly:  "My  dear 
friend,"  he  said,  "I  have  known  all  about  you  for  three 
minutes.  Now,  to  whom  should  I  lend?  To  you  or 
the  French  Republic?" 

"You  will  lend  to  the  French  Republic.  But  I  will 
see  you  paid." 

M.  Royou  grunted.  "I  should  wish,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  his  fat  hands,  "to  be  the  agent  for  all  moneys 
passing  between  Italy  and  France.  At  five  per  cent." 

"Agreed,"  cried  Bonaparte. 

Monsieur  Royou  grunted.  "I  should  wish,"  he  said, 
"that  your  Colonel  Niort  could  be — removed." 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "To  another  world,  M.  Royou  ?" 

Monsieur  Royou  looked  benevolent.  "That  is  abso- 
lutely indifferent,"  said  he. 

"My  dear  M.  Royou,"  said  Bonaparte  with  enthu- 
siasm, "we  were  made  for  each  other." 

"It  will  be  at  eight  per  cent.,"  said  M.  Royou. 

And  in  fine  they  settled  it  so  that  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  francs  were  to  be  sent  to  Bonaparte 
before  night  on  the  next  day,  and  M.  Royou,  finding 
Colonel  Niort  at  lunch  with  his  daughter,  was  to  that 
warrior  amazingly  amiable. 

When  the  money  came  into  camp,  Bonaparte  or- 
dained an  advance  of  ten  francs  to  each  man  of  those 
who  had  come  on  parade  at  his  first  order.  Then  there 
was  jubilation,  as  among  men  who  had  long  been  starv- 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  151 

ing  for  money,  and  the  malingerers  cursed  Bonaparte 
and  all  heaven  and  themselves,  and  Colonel  Niort,  who 
had  advised  his  good  men  not  to  break  their  sleep  for 
a  monkey  general,  was  less  popular.  That  night  secret 
orders  came  to  Colonel  Moncade.  At  reveille  next 
morning  Colonel  Niort's  regiment  found  themselves  sur- 
rounded by  Colonel  Moncade's,  and  Moncade's  men  had 
their  muskets  loaded.  Colonel  Niort  and  his  officers 
were  arrested,  his  men  disarmed.  Like  a  drove  of 
foolish  sheep  they  stood  beneath  the  threat  of  the 
muskets. 

Bonaparte  rode  up  with  Massena  and  Berthier,  and 
glowered  at  the  mutineers.  "You  are  soldiers  no 
more,"  he  cried.  "I  disgrace  you.  I  disband  you. 
France  owes  you  nothing  but  shame.  Go !"  Murat, 
coming  with  a  squadron  of  horsemen,  drove  the  dazed 
wretches  away  down  the  hill.  Bonaparte  wheeled  upon 
Colonel  Niort :  "You,  sir,  mutineer-commandant  of 
mutineers,  you  have  wronged  France  enough.  There  is 
one  day  more  for  you  on  earth.  At  dawn  to-morrow 
you  will  be  shot."  Niort  stammered  in  wild  haste  to 
speak.  "Silence!"  Bonaparte  thundered,  "Silence!" 
and  Colonel  Niort  stood  licking  his  lips  and  trembling. 
"Colonel  Moncade !"  Moncade  saluted.  "He  is  in  your 
custody.  These  others" — a  coldly  scornful  eye  turned 
on  Niort's  agitated  officers — "these  others  are  de- 
graded to  the  ranks.  Berthier,  see  to  it." 

Then,  riding  back  with  Massena  to  inspect  the 
artillery:  "I  think  there  will  be  no  more  mutiny 
in  the  Army  of  Italy,"  said  Bonaparte  with  a  grim 
smile. 

Massena  was  never  known  to  agree  with  anything. 
But  he  did  not  disagree. 


152  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

And  through  the  amazed  Army  of  Italy  the  tidings 
ran,  and  some  one  remembered  a  boast  of  Murat's, 
"He  is  a  leader  who  leads,  our  little  man,"  and  the 
gaunt  army  was  glad. 

But  Colonel  Niort  sat  alone  in  the  barn  that  Colonel 
Moncade  had  taken  for  a  prison;  sat  with  his  chin  on 
his  hands,  pallid,  wide-eyed,  staring  into  a  future  that 
was  nothingness.  He  was  very  much  afraid,  and  he 
was  a  clever  man,  this  Colonel  Niort. 

After  a  while  he  went  to  the  sergeant  of  the  guard 
at  the  door:  "I  would  speak  with  Colonel  Moncade." 

The  sergeant  took  his  time,  but  Moncade  came  at 
last.  Square  and  stolid,  he  stood  over  Colonel  Niort, 
who  was  wrapt  in  a  gaze  at  the  future.  "You  sent 
for  me,"  said  Colonel  Moncade. 

Niort  looked  up  with  a  start — then  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  clapped  his  hand  on  Moncade's  shoulder. 
"You  are  a  man  of  honour!"  he  cried.  Moncade,  who 
was  no  dramatist,  shrugged  a  little.  "I  trust  my  love, 
which  is  more  than  my  life,  to  you.  Convey  me  a  let- 
ter to  Mademoiselle  Royou." 

Moncade  drew  back.  There  was  no  friendship  in 
his  eyes.  He  spoke  with  difficulty.  "You  have  the 
right — to  send  letters — to  Mademoiselle  Royou?" 

Colonel  Niort  laughed  a  little.  "My  dear  friend!" 
he  exclaimed  in  gentle  raillery. 

Moncade  stared  at  him  a  moment  more.  Then  he 
turned  away.  "I  will  send  it,"  he  said  over  his  shoul- 
der. In  a  little  while  the  sergeant  brought  Colonel 
Niort  all  things  for  writing.  Colonel  Moncade  was 
very  thorough. 

Her  maid  announced  to  Mademoiselle  Royou  that  a 
soldier  had  brought  a  letter  from  Colonel  Niort.  You 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  153 

see  Mademoiselle  Royou  gaze  at  that  letter  with  eyes 
of  frank  innocence  and  turn  it  over  and  over.  She 
was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  wanted  it. 

The  inside  surprised  her  more  than  the  outside.  It 
was  this: 

WELL-BELOVED, — I  lie  here  under  sentence  of  death, 
for  no  fault  of  my  own,  but  the  folly  of  my  men,  who 
must  needs  laugh  at  the  orders  of  our  new  general. 
I  die  in  the  morning.  Pray  you,  dear  heart,  let  me 
see  your  face  once  more  in  life. — NIORT. 

From  Colonel  Moncade's  Prison.     Pluviose  13. 

I  suppose  she  was  angry  with  herself  for  not  being 
wrought  in  passionate  grief.  She  tried  to  be.  But 
a  quiet  sorrow,  a  grave  concern,  was  all  she  could  feel. 
Earnestly  she  desired  to  do  something  for  the  poor 
man  who  loved  her  so  well.  She  read  the  note  over 
and  over  and  admired  its  calm  courage  vastly,  and 
grew  vastly  angry  with  the  new  general  who  was  so 
unreasonable.  And  she  put  on  her  bonnet. 

Suleyman  and  Balkis  were  in  the  lines  of  the  Army 
of  Italy,  telling  fortunes,  and  now  that  there  was  some 
money  to  be  taken  the  magnificent  Suleyman  did  not 
disdain  to  take  it.  He  saw  Mademoiselle  Royou,  his 
yellow  eyes  lightened,  he  abandoned  his  profession  and 
came  up  behind  her.  "He  is  almost  irresistible,  that 
Captain  Niort,  but  not  quite — believe  me,  not  quite," 
said  he.  The  girl  turned  with  a  start  to  see  Suleyman 
salaam.  There  was  a  stain  of  blood  in  her  full  cheeks 
as  she  strode  on. 

It  was  not  often  difficult  to  have  an  audience  of 
Bonaparte.  The  daughter  of  M.  Royou  had  not  to 
ask  twice.  As  she  came  into  the  hut  Bonaparte  rose 


154  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

from  the  pile  of  turves  and  motioned  her  to  sit.  "At 
your  orders,  mademoiselle,"  said  he. 

She  did  not  sit.  She  stood  and  studied  Bonaparte 
with  those  wide,  fearless  eyes,  and  she  was  taller  than 
he.  That  annoyed  him.  "I  am  come  to  beg  you  a 
kindness,"  she  said. 

"I  am  sure  Mademoiselle  Royou  would  beg  no  kind- 
ness that  a  maiden  should  not,"  said  Bonaparte  with 
some  acidity. 

"It  is  a  life,"  said  the  girl  simply. 

And  Bonaparte  understood  at  once.  But,  "What 
life  is  so  happy  as  to  possess  Mademoiselle  Royou's 
affection?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  Colonel  Niort,"  said  the  girl. 

"Then  I  cannot  admire  your  choice,  and  I  shall  com- 
pel you  to  make  another." 

"Compel?"     She  drew  herself  up  in  defiant  pride. 

"You  cannot  espouse  the  dead,  mademoiselle." 

"Dead?  Ah,  no,  he  must  not  die!  Only  because  his 
men  were  stupid?  You  cannot  be  so  cruel.  Sir,  I 
entreat  you " 

"You  agitate  yourself  to  no  good,  mademoiselle." 

"But — but" — she  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands, 
and  was  plainly  at  a  loss  for  the  right  way  to  take. 
Then  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  held  out  her  hands  to 
Bonaparte.  "I  entreat  you,  I  entreat  you,  spare  him." 

"I  do  my  duty,"  said  Bonaparte  harshly.  "Go 
home,  girl,  and  do  yours." 

She  stayed  there  on  her  knees  in  mute  appeal.  Pas- 
sion was  to  seek  in  her,  and  she  knew  it  better  than 
he.  "Ah,  but  his  life — life —  "  she  stammered.  And 
then  under  Bonaparte's  cold  sneer  her  hands  fell.  She 
swayed  a  little,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  155 

"I  shall  forget  all  this,  mademoiselle,"  said  Bona- 
parte. "You  will  be  able  to  forget  it  too." 

Mademoiselle  Royou  went  out  silently. 

When  she  was  gone  Bonaparte  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "That  is  a  heart  that  will  never  break,"  said 
he.  ...  A  while  after,  as  he  wandered  through  the 
lines  playing  the  good  comrade  skilfully,  he  came  upon 
Suleyman  telling  fortunes,  and  stopped  to  listen. 
They  were  rather  well  told,  and  he  took  Suleyman  by 
the  ear:  "Well,  my  eastern,"  said  he,  "and  what  will 
my  fortune  be?" 

Suleyman's  yellow  eyes  countered  his  boldly. 
"Excellence,"  said  Suleyman,  "your  fortune  is  not 
to  be  told  in  a  moment.  But  it  is  the  ambi- 
tion of  my  life  to  tell  it,  and  am  consulting  the 
stars." 

"Tell  me  when  the  stars  have  answered,"  said  Bona- 
parte. 

Suleyman  salaamed.  "There  is  one  star,  I  think," 
said  he  in  a  low  voice. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  him  strangely. 

Mademoiselle  Royou,  passing  through  the  jests  of 
the  camp,  had  sought  out  Colonel  Moncade.  That 
stolid  man  blushed  at  her  like  a  schoolboy,  and  made 
her  blush  in  turn.  "He  is  in  your  prison — Colonel 
Niort  is?"  Moncade  bent  his  head.  "Oh,  must  you 
keep  him?  Must  it  be?" 

"I  have  orders,"  said  Moncade  gruffly. 

"You  could  not ?"  the  girl  stammered.  "Oh, 

could  you  not ?"  But  it  was  even  more  difficult 

to  beg  of  Captain  Moncade  than  of  Bonaparte.  "I — I 
might  see  him  at  least?" 

Colonel  Moncade  threw  back  his  head  like  a  man  in 


156  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

pain.  "It  is  this  way,"  he  said  gruffly,  and  led  on  to 
the  barn. 

At  the  sound  of  a  woman's  footstep,  Colonel  Niort 
started  up.  He  came  swiftly  to  meet  her,  holding  out 
his  hands.  But  Mademoiselle  Royou  stood  still,  lacing 
her  fingers  together,  gazing  at  him  with  eyes  that 
spoke  wonder  and  something  of  fear. 

Colonel  Niort's  handsome  face  was  gravely  tender. 
He  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them.  "My  well-beloved," 
he  said  in  a  deep,  tremulous  voice,  "my  heart." 

"I  have  tried,  indeed  I  have  tried,"  the  girl  gasped. 
"Oh,  indeed  I  have,  but  your  general  would  not " 

Colonel  Niort  grasped  her  hands  with  passionate 
strength.  "Dear  one,  it  is  like  you.  Ah,  you  must 
not  grieve  for  me.  I  go  to  death  with  my  honour 
clean." 

Mademoiselle  Royou  was  moved.  "It  is  cruel,  ah !  it 
is  cruel,"  she  said,  with  something  like  a  sob. 

"My  dearest,  my  dearest,"  Colonel  Niort's  voice 
throbbed,  "you  must  not  grieve.  That — ah,  I  can 
bear  all  but  that.  I  pray  you,  do  not  weep." 

"No,"  said  Mademoiselle  Royou,  "no."  In  fact  she 
was  not  weeping,  though  her  lips  trembled. 

Colonel  Niort  flung  his  arms  about  her  in  a  sudden 
frenzy  of  passion.  "God !  but  it  is  hard  to  leave  you," 
he  groaned,  and  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

Then  the  woman  woke,  and  there  was  wild  fear  in 
her  eyes  and  anger,  and  fiercely  she  forced  herself  away, 
and  stood  panting  and  defiant. 

"Ah,  forgive  me,"  cried  Colonel  Niort.  "Do  you 
wonder  I  am  mad?  This — this  is  my  last  day  of  life, 
and  I  have  never  had  you  in  my  arms.  You  are  never 
for  me  now.  Your  voice,  your  eyes,  they'll  never  come 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  157 

to  me  again.  Ah,  Ninon,  Ninon,  I  have  loved  you 
well."  There  were  tears  in  the  girl's  eyes  now. 
Colonel  Niort  continued  his  subject.  "My  love,  is  it 
so  much  to  ask?"  he  caught  her  hands  again.  "Once, 
once  ere  all's  done  with  me  to  hold  your  heart  on  mine, 
to  feel  your  lips — once  in  life." 

"I — I  am  hard,  I  suppose,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low 
voice.  She  swayed  a  little  to  him.  Colonel  Niort 
caught  her,  crushed  her  against  him.  His  lips  were 
hot  upon  hers.  .  .  .  But  it  was  only  a  moment  before 
she  was  struggling  to  free  herself,  before  she  was  out 
of  his  arms  and  with  a  hand  to  her  burning  cheeks. 
"No,  no,"  she  panted,  "it  is  all  wrong." 

"My  well-beloved,"  said  Colonel  Niort  very  gently, 
"good-bye."  She  gave  a  cry  of  pain,  of  helpless  re- 
morse. She  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him.  Colonel 
Niort  kissed  them  tenderly.  .  .  .  "Go  now,  or  I  must 
play  the  coward,"  he  cried.  "Go !" 

Mademoiselle  Royou  lost  no  time.  Her  tears  were 
blinding  her.  Colonel  Moncade  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  that. 

But  Colonel  Niort  was  left  smiling.  After  a  while, 
composing  his  features  to  a  decent  agitation,  he  went 
to  the  sergeant  on  guard  and  desired  to  speak  again 
with  Colonel  Moncade.  Moncade  came.  Colonel  Niort 
exhibited  some  emotion,  and  indeed  Moncade  was  not 
altogether  at  his  ease.  "Moncade,"  said  Colonel  Niort 
hoarsely,  "you  know  I  am  not  a  coward." 

"You  are  not  a  coward,"  Moncade  repeated. 

"Good.  It  is  easier.  I  am  not  the  man  to  ask  my 
life  of  any  man.  But" — Niort  spoke  with  the  difficulty 
of  emotion — "but  I  have  not  the  right — to  think  only — 
of  my  pride.  Moncade!  you  saw  her  agony.  It  is 


158  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

for  her  sake  I  must  bend  myself.  I  ask  you — a  chance 
to  escape." 

Moncade  stared  away  out  at  the  sunlight.  It  was 
a  long  while  before  he  spoke.  .  .  .  "She  loves  you?" 
he  asked,  in  a  low  voice.  Niort  laughed  gently.  At 
that  Moncade  strode  swiftly  away.  But  behind  him 
Colonel  Niort  was  rubbing  his  hands. 

After  nightfall  Colonel  Niort  observed  that  the 
guard  at  the  door  of  the  barn  was  reduced  to  one 
man.  On  the  wicket-gate  at  the  other  end  he  heard  the 
padlock  squeak.  A  scrap  of  white  paper  fluttered 
through  a  crack:  "The  word  is  Toulon."  When  all 
the  camp  was  quiet  Colonel  Niort  pushed  the  wicket 
gently  open  and  made  his  way  out.  With  the  counter- 
sign ready  for  the  challenging  sentry  he  was  swiftly 
beyond  the  lines  and  on  his  way  to  Nice.  By  M. 
Royou's  house  he  stopped.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be 
ignorant  which  was  mademoiselle's  window.  A  stone 
at  it  brought  her  to  look  out.  She  had  the  felicity 
to  behold  Colonel  Niort,  bare  of  head,  holding  out  his 
arms  to  her.  What  could  she  do  but  come  down?  She 
opened  the  door  and  Colonel  Niort  sprang  upon  her 
and  caught  her  to  his  breast.  "Free,  my  beloved — 
free  as  the  birds,  free  as  the  air,"  he  cried,  and  kissed 
her  fiercely. 

"I — I — I  do  not  understand,"  Mademoiselle  Royou 
gasped. 

"Let  us  go  in.  I  will  tell  you."  Colonel  Niort  bolted 
and  barred  the  door  behind  him  and  she  led  on  to  an 
inner  room.  She  was  of  witching  grace  in  her  loose 
gown,  with  glossy  black  hair  rippling  about  her,  and 
Colonel  Niort  told  her  so. 

"No,  no.     Never  mind  all  that,"  she  said  nervously, 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  159 

and  drew  away  from  him  as  far  as  she  could.  "Tell 
me  how  you  escaped." 

"My  heart,  my  life,  I  must  needs  live  for  the  glory 
of  you,"  cried  Colonel  Niort,  approaching  her. 

A  grunt  was  heard.  Colonel  Niort,  turning,  was  in 
time  to  see  the  entry  of  M.  Royou.  M.  Royou,  like 
his  daughter,  wore  a  loose  gown,  but  he  had  no  peculiar 
grace  in  it.  "This  is  a  surprise,"  said  M.  Royou  gen- 
ially. "I  thought  you  were  going  to  die.  Has  some 
one  made  a  mistake?" 

"Sir,"  cried  Colonel  Niort,  "I  had  to  win  life  for 
your  daughter's  sake." 

"You  are  very  obliging,"  said  M.  Royou.  "How  did 
you  contrive  it?" 

"I  have  broken  prison.  I  am  free!"  cried  Colonel 
Niort.  "Free  for  my  Ninon  and  her  love." 

"Oh!    Oh,  no!"  Ninon  gasped. 

"My  dear  colonel,"  said  her  father,  "you  interest 
me  extremely.  Tell  me  what  you  did." 

"Sir,  I  am  not  the  man  to  ask  a  kindness  of  any 
man  for  my  own  sake.  But  love  is  lord.  Ah" — he 
kissed  his  hand  to  Mademoiselle  Royou — "love  is  lord. 
I  humbled  myself.  I  told  my  good  friend  Colonel  Mon- 
cade.  He  saw  my  necessities.  He  left  me  a  door  open. 
I  am  here  free  with  my  life  and  my  love." 

M.  Royou  grunted.  "I  am  wondering,"  he  an- 
nounced, "what  your  General  Bonaparte  will  do  to 
Moncade." 

Colonel  Niort  was  approaching  Mademoiselle  Royou. 
"That  is  plainly  Moncade's  affair,"  said  he,  over  his 
shoulder. 

M.  Royou  approached  the  bell.  "Now  I  think  it  is 
mine,"  said  he. 


160  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Colonel  Niort  turned  with  a  start.  "What?"  he 
cried,  and  his  handsome  face  grew  dark. 

M.  Royou  rang  the  bell.  "It  is  natural,"  he 
said,  "that  you  would  like  to  have  Moncade  shot 
for  you.  But  I  would  rather  have  you  shot  for 
Moncade." 

"Why  then?"  Colonel  Niort  thundered. 

"Because,"  said  M.  Royou  calmly,  "Moncade  loves 
my  daughter,  and  you  do  not." 

Mademoiselle  Royou  gave  a  little  startled  cry. 

"Loves  her?"  cried  Niort.  "He  set  me  free  to  love 
her." 

"Yes,"  said  M.  Royou,  and  rang  the  bell  again. 
Colonel  Niort  was  breaking  into  the  eloquence  of  pas- 
sion when  a  sleepy,  dishevelled  footman  came  in.  "See 
that  this  gentleman  does  not  leave  the  room,  Joseph," 
said  M.  Royou,  and  rang  the  bell  a  third  time.  With 
an  oath  Colonel  Niort  darted  at  the  door.  The  foot- 
man made  a  feeble  clutch  at  him  and  was  thrown  down. 
Then  M.  Royou  himself,  for  all  his  years  and  his  fat, 
closed  with  Niort,  shouting  lustily  for  his  household. 
Niort  flung  him  heavily  down,  and  he  fell  with  a  leg 
twisted  beneath  him,  and  his  head  struck  the  marble 
floor.  Then  with  a  cry  his  daughter  flung  herself  down 
beside  him.  Colonel  Niort  stared  a  moment,  gave  out 
a  curse,  and  fled. 

In  the  morning,  an  hour  after  dawn,  Colonel  Mon- 
cade was  wakened  by  his  adjutant,  who  announced  with 
alarm  that  Colonel  Niort  had  escaped.  Colonel  Mon- 
cade (he  was  in  no  way  an  actor)  showed  little  sur- 
prise. At  the  suggestion  of  the  adjutant  he  went  to 
question  the  sentry  of  the  night  (from  whom  he  learnt 
nothing),  and  inspect  the  empty  barn  (in  which  he 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  161 

found  nothing).  His  adjutant  looked  at  Colonel  Mon- 
cade.  Colonel  Moncade  looked  at  his  adjutant.  "The 
general  will  have  to  be  informed,"  said  the  adjutant. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Colonel  Moncade,  and  went. 

Bonaparte  sat  at  his  breakfast — a  chicken  cooked 
with  onions — and  looked  up  with  his  mouth  full. 
"Moncade?  Good.  You  have  shot  him?" 

"No,  sir." 

Bonaparte  leant  back  from  his  plate.  "And  why 
the  devil  not,  Colonel  Moncade?" 

"He  has  escaped,  sir." 

Bonaparte  started  up.  "Do  you  mock  me?"  he  thun- 
dered. "Am  I  never  to  be  obeyed?  Take  care,  Colonel 
Moncade.  He  was  in  your  charge,  and  you  pay  for 
his  life  with  your  own." 

"I  know  it,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Moncade. 

"Well  then — well,  how  did  he  escape?" 

"I  went  to  speak  to  him  last  night.  I  suppose  that 
I  left  the  door  of  his  prison  unlocked." 

Bonaparte  exploded  an  oath.  "Suppose ! — Suppose ! 
Rascal,  you  suppose  you  meant  to  set  him  free!" 

Colonel  Moncade  did  not  deny  it.  He  looked  Bona- 
parte fairly  in  the  eye. 

"What!  Am  I  to  be  defied?"  Bonaparte  thundered, 
swarthy  in  rage.  He  stamped  his  foot  on  the  ground, 
shouting:  "Berthier! — Berthier!"  and  Berthier  came 
in  a  hurry,  wiping  his  mouth.  "You  will  arrest  that 
officer,  Berthier.  You  will  order  a  general  parade  of 
the  army  an  hour  before  sunset.  That  officer  will  be 
degraded  and  drummed  out  of  the  army.  He  will  then 
be  shot.  Arrange  it."  Berthier  saluted  and  held  out 
his  hand  for  Moncade's  sword.  Moncade  drew  it  and 
gave  it  up.  But  his  eyes  still  sought  Bonaparte's. 


162  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Colonel  Moncade,"  said  Bonaparte,  "it  was  not  worth 
while." 

Colonel  Moncade  saluted,  and  went  out  with  Ber- 
thier's  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

The  best  surgeons  of  Nice  bled  M.  Royou  zealously, 
and  it  may  be,  as  they  assured  him,  that  their  treat- 
ment saved  his  life.  It  certainly  brought  him  near 
death.  He  lay  that  morning  with  his  daughter  watch- 
ing over  him,  helpless.  As  the  sun  rose  higher  he 
began  to  murmur  to  himself,  and  she  caught  the  word 
"Moncade — Moncade,"  and  felt  her  heart  check  and 
throb.  .  .  .  Colonel  Moncade  .  .  .  she  saw  the  square, 
honest  face  .  .  .  was  it  true  that  he  loved  her,  he  in 
his  lonely  strength?  Then — then  he  must  love  her 
most  nobly.  At  least — again  her  father  murmured 
"Moncade,  Moncade,"  and  painfully  his  eyes  sought 
hers. 

"Dear,"  she  knelt  by  the  bedside,  "what  is  it, 
then?" 

For  answer  she  had  only:   "Moncade,  Moncade." 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  Again,  something 
shamefully,  she  made  her  way  to  that  c\imp  on  the 
hills,  to  Colonel  Moncade's  regiment.  It  was  not  in  a 
good  temper.  It  is  probable  that  Moncade's  men  never 
much  loved  Colonel  Moncade — he  was  not  a  man  easy 
to  love — but  they  were  not  pleased  that  he  should  be 
shot  for  the  sake  of  Colonel  Niort.  They  said  so  with 
the  coarsest  freedom  to  Mademoiselle  Royou.  And  the 
girl,  her  mind  tingling  with  shame  and  grief,  fled  from 
them,  and  slowly,  difficultly,  forced  herself  on  to  Bona- 
parte. 

Suleyman  was  approaching  the  hut  in  front  of  her, 
but  he  beard  her  coming,  and,  salaaming,  made  way. 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  163 

"The  Mademoiselle  Royou  desires  an  audience  of  Gen- 
eral Bonaparte,"  he  announced  to  an  orderly. 

There  was  again  no  delay  for  Mademoiselle  Royou. 
Bonaparte  received  her  shamed  face  with  fierce  eyes. 
"What,  mademoiselle !  Have  you  come  to  tell  me  how 
you  made  a  good  soldier  traitor  to  get  your  paramour 
out  of  danger?" 

"No!  No!"  Mademoiselle  Royou  cried.  "Oh,  I 
never  cared  for  him,  truly,  truly  I  never  cared  for 
him.  But  this  is  terrible.  Colonel  Moncade  is  true 
and  honourable  and  noble.  Indeed,  indeed  he  is.  Oh, 
I  think  he  is  the  noblest  man  in  all  the  world.  It  is 

the  other — the  other "  she  shuddered.     "Oh,  you 

must  not  kill  Colonel  Moncade.    Indeed  you  must  not." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  this  yesterday,"  said 
Bonaparte  coldly. 

"I  did  not  know."  She  brushed  back  her  hair  with 
a  strange,  nervous  gesture.  "It  is  so  hard  to  know. 
Oh,  sir,  I  pray  you — see — see !"  she  flung  herself  down 
and  clung  to  him,  looking  up  with  wild,  tearful  eyes. 
"Oh,  I  will  be  your  slave  if  you  will  spare  him.  This — 
this  is  shame  that  kills — that  he  should  die  because  he 
loved  me  so  well — and  he  is  so  good  and  true  and 
great — ah,  sir,  I " 

Bonaparte  thrust  her  away.  "Strumpet,  am  I  to 
pardon  all  your  gulls?  I  would  have  you  whipped 
before  the  army  but  for  your  father's  sake." 

Still  she  clung  to  him,  still  she  stammered  some  wild, 
pitiful  prayer.  Bonaparte  called  an  orderly  and  had 
her  thrust  out. 

Racked  with  the  wild  sobbing  of  shame  she  went 
blindly  away.  .  .  .  She  felt  a  hand  on  her  arm,  and 
through  her  tears  saw  Suleyman's  weird  form.  "For 


164  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

this  one  it  is  well  you  should  cry,"  said  Suleyman. 
"Consider:  would  you  give  much  for  his  life?" 

"Give?"  She  stared  at  him  distraught.  "I  would 
give  all  I  have — life — all." 

"Would  you  give  ten  thousand  francs?"  said  Suley- 
man softly,  with  crafty  eyes. 

"I  will  give  anything — my  father  will — anything." 

"Do  not  shout,"  said  Suleyman,  and  slid  stealthily 
away  from  her. 

A  while  after  he  was  chatting  amiably  with  Ber- 
thier's  cook,  and  unostentatiously  slipped  three  pellets 
into  the  bowl  of  soup  prepared  for  Colonel  Moncade. 

Then  he  bade  a  gentlemanly  farewell  to  the  cook, 
and  took  himself  to  Bonaparte's  hut,  and  slid  past 
the  sentry  and  in  without  a  sound.  "The  Powers  of 
the  Air  salute  the  Power  of  the  Earth,"  said  he  in  a 
hollow  voice.  "My  lord,  the  stars  have  answered." 

Bonaparte  looked  up  from  a  map  of  Lombardy. 

"What  the  devil !  Oh,  it  is  the  wizard.  Well, 

sirrah,  and  what  say  the  stars?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Suleyman  impressively,  "in  my 
own  place.  There,  by  the  might  of  all  the  wisdom  of 
time,  I  will  make  you  see  your  destiny." 

"Perhaps  I  see  it  myself." 

"Do  you  see  an  empire?"  said  Suleyman.  "Do  you 
see  its  heir?" 

"What?"  cried  Bonaparte,  flushing. 

"Come  and  see,"  said  Suleyman. 

"It  must  be  now  or  never,  master  wizard." 

"My  lord,"  said  Suleyman,  with  a  magnificent  ges- 
ture, "come  now.  I  will  make  you  see  your  destiny, 
and  for  reward  I  ask  only  to  follow  it  and  a  dead  man's 
body." 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  165 

"A  dead  man?"  cried  Bonaparte.  "Do  you  think  I 
keep  dead  men  about  me?" 

"You  could  kill  one,  I  suppose,"  said  Suleyman  care- 
lessly. "Ay,  you  are  going  to  kill  one  to-night.  Give 
me  his  body." 

"Colonel  Moncade?" 

"His  name  does  not  matter." 

"What  the  devil  is  his  body  to  you?" 

"I  need  it  in  my  experiments,"  said  Suleyman.  "The 
husk  of  man  has  its  use  when  the  kernel  that  is  the 
seed  of  life  has  gone.  There  is  value  in  death  to  the 
adept,  my  lord.  Give  me  his  body." 

Bonaparte  shrugged.  "Well.  It  may  be  some  use  to 
you.  It  has  been  none  to  me.  And  not  much  to  him- 
self." He  rose,  calling  for  Jean  Dortan  and  his  horse. 

"It  is  agreed,  my  lord,"  Suleyman  reminded  him, 
"that  henceforth  I  follow  your  destiny." 

"I  will  see  my  destiny  first,"  said  Bonaparte. 

So  with  the  good  Jean  Dortan  grumbling  a  little  at 
all  mountebanks,  the  three  of  them  rode  off  to  Nice. 
Suleyman  had  made  his  quarters  in  a  decent  house  in 
the  Rue  St.  Fra^ois.  His  black  boy  let  them  in  and 
they  came  to  a  big  room  bare  of  all  ornament,  hung 
with  scarlet.  It  was  lit  with  candles.  A  great  ball 
of  crystal  hung  in  mid-air,  two  more  stood  upon  the 
table.  A  glass  lamp  burnt  with  the  invisible  flame  of 
spirit  of  wine.  Balkis  lay  at  easy  length  on  cushions, 
clad  in  a  white  gown  that  revealed  the  rich  grace  of 
her  form,  smiling,  apt  for  desire.  She  let  Bonaparte 
survey  her,  and  laughed  at  him  before  she  rose  and  bade 
him  sit,  and  thrust  forward  the  one  chair.  Bonaparte 
sat  at  his  ease  and  Balkis  stood,  white  womanhood, 
against  the  red  velvet  that  hid  the  walls. 


166  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Suleyman  took  the  lamp  and  vanished  a  moment. 
When  he  brought  it  back  it  gave  a  keen  white  light 
and  fragrant  smoke.  He  set  it  so  that  the  light  came 
from  behind  him  full  into  Bonaparte's  eyes — Bona- 
parte's eyes  in  the  white  glare,  his  own  invisible.  He 
salaamed  low.  "Salute  to  Power,  Power  of  the  Earth." 
He  pointed  a  long  finger  straight  at  Bonaparte's  eyes. 
"Power  is  there,  power  that  beats  down  all  the  powers 
of  men.  A  scourge  and  a  sword  for  men  I  see.  I  see 
thirst  unquenchable  for  conquest  and  glory.  I  see  the 
victor  of  the  Austrian.  I  see  him  turn  his  gaze  on  the 
East  and  strive  to  wake  her  from  her  sleep.  The  East ! 
The  East!"  his  voice  rose  shrill,  he  laid  his  hand  on 
Bonaparte's  brow.  "Ah,  but  the  East  sleeps  sound. 
He  does  not  know  the  East.  She  worships  the  Powers 
of  the  Air  and  he  is  of  the  earth.  I  see  him  turn 
again  to  western  lands  and  grasp  and  grip  Empire. 
Empire!  Empire!  It  grows  and  grows  greedily  and 
grows.  Empire!  His  own  land  is  his,  and  more,  and 
more.  Kings  kneel  to  him  and  beg  to  be  his  vassals. 
From  the  sea  as  far  as  the  sea,  all  lands  of  the  West 
are  his.  His  legates,  the  eagles,  fly  over  all.  An  heir 
is  born,  blood  of  his  blood,  King  from  the  birth — the 
Empire  waits  an  heir.  And  still  he  strives  for  more. 
A  vast  host  is  gathered.  They  march  forth  east- 
ward— I  see  him  in  the  van.  On — and  on — and  on — 
ah,  they  pass  beyond — beyond.  Too  far !"  He  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  hand  like  a  man  gazing  into  the  dis- 
tance; let  his  hand  fall  with  a  cry  of  despair.  "He 
is  gone  beyond  my  vision,  he  and  his  hosts.  A  star 
guides  them.  Whither?  Whither?"  His  voice  rose  to 
a  scream  on  the  word,  and  on  the  word  the  glare 
of  the  light  died  suddenly  and  left  empty  red  dark- 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  167 

ness.  Bonaparte,  something  dazed  by  the  bombast, 
dazed  by  the  heavily  fragrant  fumes  of  the  lamp,  sat 
still. 

The  darkness  was  gone  again.  Through  two  of  the 
crystals  came  white  shafts  that  met  in  the  third  and 
made  it  a  fluid  sphere  of  light  close  before  his  eyes. 
He  could  not  look  away  from  it.  A  chill  hand  came 
upon  his  brow.  His  own  hand  was  laid  upon  a  woman's 
breast. 

"The  veil  is  drawn,"  said  Suleyman's  voice.  "Mas- 
ter, the  veil  is  drawn.  See,  if  thou  darest.  See !" 

And  in  that  fluid  light  a  film  gathered  and  darkened. 
Bonaparte  saw  himself,  and  towering  above  him  some 
vast  vague  form,  saw  his  own  grim  strength  and  the 
dim  mocking  features  of  the  Sphinx.  .  .  .  All  grew 
misty  and  faded  into  light  again. 

"The  veil  is  drawn."  Suleyman's  voice  droned.  "The 
veil  is  drawn.  See !" 

Again  a  film  gathered  in  the  light  and  Bonaparte 
saw  the  lofty  arches  of  Notre-Dame.  There  he  stood 
himself  in  purple  robes  upon  a  dais.  Beside  him  was 
an  old  man  in  surplice  and  cope,  crowned  with  a  triple 
crown — the  Pope.  From  his  hands  the  anointing  oil 
was  shed  on  Bonaparte's  brow.  .  .  .  And  again  the 
vision  blurred  and  faded  into  light.  • 

"See !  See !"  Suleyman  droned.  "If  thou  hast  cour- 
age, see!" 

Again  the  light  was  shadowed  by  a  film.  Again 
Bonaparte  saw  himself.  Now  he  was  on  his  white 
charger,  and  dim  hosts  rode  behind  him.  But  the  way 
he  went  led  to  darkness.  Even  as  he  gazed  a  star  rose 
pale  in  the  gloom  and  grew  and  grew,  and  its  clear 
rays  shone  upon  his  own  brow.  And  all  his  hosts  faded 


168  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

out  of  the  vision  till  he  was  alone,  with  the  star  bright 
above  him. 

"The  veil  is  drawn,"  Suleyman  droned.  "Behold  thy 
star !  Behold " 

Some  new  thing  grew  in  the  vision — some  vague 
being  beneath  the  star — the  star  paled  before  it — some 
form 

With  a  wild  cry  Suleyman  dashed  it  all  aside,  and  the 
room  was  in  red  darkness  ...  a  long  while  the  silence 
and  the  dark  endured.  .  .  .  Then  came  a  grunt  and  a 
"Humph!  What  is  the  next  act?"  from  Jean  Dortan. 

They  heard  the  hiss  of  Suleyman's  indrawn  breath. 
He  seemed  to  move  unsteadily.  Then  the  candles  were 
lit,  and  they  saw  him,  pale,  with  sweat  glittering  on 
his  brow.  Balkis  was  shrunk  together  on  her  cushions, 
watching  them.  "That  is  all.  That  is  the  end,"  said 
Suleyman  nervously. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "It  was  a  very  pretty  business, 
Master  Suleyman.  What  do  I  pay?  A  dead  man, 
is  it?" 

Suleyman  shuddered.  "Yes,  yes.  That  is  it,"  he 
said  in  a  hurry. 

Bonaparte  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "You  shall 
have  him,  and  more.  I  do  not  lose  sight  of  you,  master 
wizard.  Remember.  You  follow  my  destiny."  Suley- 
man shuddered  again.  Bonaparte  took  Jean  Dortan's 
arm  and  strode  out. 

Suleyman  came  to  Balkis,  and  dropped  down  beside 
her.  Her  face  was  grey.  "You  saw  it?"  said  Suley- 
man. She  nodded.  "It  was  the  same — Marie  An- 
toinette saw."  She  nodded  Mgain. 

Then  she  gripped  his  hand.  "You  will  not  follow 
him  now?"  she  cried. 


Soldiers  of  France,  Forward ! "    Then  They  Roared  at 
Him,  and  a  Storm  of  Tattered  Shakoes 
Went  Tossing  to  the  Sky 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  169 

"We  do  not  follow  death,"  said  Suleyman. 

They  sat  together  hand  in  hand  till  there 
was  blundering  knocking  at  the  door,  and  they  had 
brought  into  them  the  lifeless  body  of  Colonel  Mon- 
cade. 

Bonaparte  was  gay  beyond  his  wont  as  he  rode  back 
to  camp.  He  expended  much  wit  upon  Jean  Dortan, 
who,  not  being  witty  and  having  a  profound  contempt 
for  mysteries,  was  monosyllabic.  Berthier  met  him  at 
his  hut.  "I  have  given  orders  for  the  parade,  sir. 
But — Colonel  Moncade  is  dead." 

"The  devil !"  cried  Bonaparte. 

"The  surgeons  say  it  is  a  palsy  of  the  heart  or  a 
flux  of  the  brain,"  Berthier  explained. 

Bonaparte  went  into  the  hut  where  Moncade  lay  at 
length,  pallid,  calm,  and  still,  and  looked  awhile.  "Well, 
it  is  the  better  for  him,"  he  said  at  last,  and  turned 
away.  "Have  his  body  sent  to  the  wizard  in  the  Rue 
Fran9ois,  Berthier.  And  now — on  parade!"  But  he 
put  on  his  finest  uniform  before  he  went. 

It  was  an  army  vastly  more  soldierly  than  of  old 
that  he  viewed  as  he  rode  down  the  hillside,  sedate  and 
calm.  Carefully  he  made  his  inspection.  Then  he 
rode  to  the  middle  of  the  line.  His  voice  rose  like  a 
trumpet.  "Soldiers!  You  are  hungry  and  naked. 
The  Republic  owes  you  much,  but  she  has  not  money  to 
pay  her  debts.  I  shall  lead  you  into  Italy,  into  the 
most  fertile  plains  that  the  sun  beholds.  Rich  prov- 
inces, opulent  towns,  shall  be  for  your  pleasure.  Sol- 
diers !  with  such  a  prospect  before  you,  can  you  fail  in 
courage  and  constancy?  We  march  at  dawn.  Soldiers 
of  France,  forward !"  Then  they  roared  at  him — judge 
how  they  roared  at  him — and  a  storm  of  tattered 


170  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

shakoes  went  tossing  to  the  sky,  and  they  roared  and 
roared  again. 

Bonaparte  bade  his  generals  of  divisions  dismiss  their 
men,  and  meet  him  in  his  quarters.  When  he  came  there 
he  found  Jean  Dortan  waiting  for  him.  "Eh,  my  cap- 
tain," said  Jean  Dortan.  "So  the  conjurer  has  bidden 
us  advance?" 

Bonaparte  smiled.  "My  big  Jean,  your  ideas  are 
of  the  earth." 

"My  idea  is,"  said  Jean  Dortan,  struggling  to  give 
birth  to  it,  "that  this  Colonel  Moncade  died  very 
strangely,  and  this  conjurer  has  a  strange  concern 
for  him,  and  I  want  to  know  what  he  is  doing  with 
him." 

"Go  and  see,"  said  Bonaparte. 

And  Jean  Dortan  took  a  pair  of  orderlies  with 
him. 

When  Colonel  Moncade's  body  was  borne  in,  Suley- 
man  started  to  life  from  gloom.  He  made  swift  rid- 
dance of  the  bearers,  and  set  his  door  fast.  Balkis  and 
he  set  to  work  on  the  body,  swiftly,  surely.  They  had 
the  chest  bare  and  the  feet.  On  the  feet  and  the  palms 
of  the  hands  they  poured  some  pungent  liquor.  Suley- 
man  forced  open  the  mouth  and  distilled  another  liquor 
into  it  drop  by  drop.  Balkis  swayed  the  arms 
rhythmically  to  and  fro.  Suleyman  took  a  tube  and 
lit  in  it  a  powder  that  smouldered,  and  blew  the 
dense  smoke  into  Moncade's  nostrils.  Muscles  in 
throat  and  thigh  began  to  twitch.  Moncade  sneezed 
and  moved.  Then  Suleyman  caught  him  and,  raising 
him,  poured  into  him  an  alembic  full  of  a  greenish 
liquor.  Moncade  choked  and  gulped,  and  made  strange 
noises.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  looked  all 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  171 

round  him.  His  eyes  were  strangely  dull,  his  pupils 
hugely  distended.  "Death,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "it 
is  death." 

"No!  Life!"  cried  Suleyman.  "Life  is  in  the  body 
again." 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  was  the  squeak  of  the  black 
boy's  voice  without  the  door.  Suleyman  yelled  back 
an  answer  in  the  same  eastern  tongue.  It  was  hardly 
spoken  before  Jean  Dortan  and  his  orderlies  broke  the 
door  from  its  lock  and  plunged  in.  "Name  of  a  dog, 
the  dead  is  alive!"  cried  one,  and  recoiled.  But  Jean 
Dortan  sprang  at  the  amazed,  amazing  Moncade,  who 
was  breathing  like  a  man  after  a  dive.  Suleyman  came 
in  his  way  and  thrust  him  aside  and  with  one  swift 
movement  overturned  a  burning  candle  into  a  box  of 
powder.  There  was  a  spurt  of  greenish  flame.  Jean 
Dortan  plunged  at  Moncade  again,  and  Suleyman 
grappled  with  him.  The  whole  room  was  filled  with 
damp  grey  smoke  that  blinded.  Still  Jean  Dortan 
wrestled  with  Suleyman,  crying  to  the  orderlies  to  seize 
Moncade.  .  .  . 

But  the  truth  is  they  never  tried.  For  when  the 
smoke  grew  thin  and  Jean  Dortan,  coughing,  with 
streaming  eyes,  saw  Suleyman's  face  again,  Balkis  and 
Moncade  were  gone  and  the  two  orderlies,  scared  and 
pallid,  in  a  corner.  Jean  Dortan  cursed  them  for 
cowards,  and,  committing  Suleyman  to  their  care,  pro- 
ceeded to  search  the  house.  Since  by  that  time  Balkis 
was  leading  Moncade,  who  walked  like  a  drunken  man, 
out  of  the  garden  and  away  to  M.  Royou's  house,  Jean 
Dortan  did  not  find  them.  At  M.  Royou's  house  Col- 
onel Moncade  was  given  a  bath  and  a  bed,  and  in  good 
time  other  things. 


172  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

But  I  wonder  at  times  if  he  and  Mademoiselle  Royou 
were  very  happy. 

Jean  Dortan,  in  the  worst  of  tempers,  proceeded  to 
hale  Suleyman  away  to  Bonaparte.  Suleyman,  though 
Jean  Dortan  swore  at  him  frequently,  said  no  word. 
At  times  he  laughed  a  little.  So  that  by  the  time  they 
came  to  Bonaparte's  hut  Jean  Dortan  was  near  explod- 
ing wrath. 

Twilight  had  fallen.  The  council  of  war  was  done 
and  Bonaparte  alone.  Jean  Dortan  haled  Suleyman 
into  the  presence  and  gushed  out  his  wrathful  tale: 
how  he  found  Moncade  not  dead  but  alive,  how  Suley- 
man had  tricked  him,  how  it  was  plainly  all  a  cheat, 
how 

Bonaparte  beckoned  Suleyman  closer.  The  grey 
eyes  smote  keen.  "Your  life  is  on  a  sword's  edge, 
wizard.  Tell  me  truth  now,  or  you  shall  never  see 
another  sun." 

Suleyman  laughed.  "My  body  dies.  What  matter? 
It  is  but  a  fetter  of  the  soul.  Strike  it  off  and  I  will 
thank  you." 

Bonaparte  searched  him  through  for  a  trace  of  fear, 
and  found  none.  "You  were  not  so  brave  a  while  ago, 
wizard.  Who  was  in  a  sweat  of  fear  for  what  I  saw 
in  the  crystal?" 

"It  was  not  for  what  you  saw.  It  was  for  what 
you  did  not  see,"  said  Suleyman. 

"What?"  Bonaparte  started  up  quivering  as  a  sword 
quivers.  "How  much  of  that  was  trick,  rascal?" 

"They  were  good  tricks,  were  they  not?"  said  Suley- 
man, with  an  easy  laugh.  Bonaparte  gripped  him 
fiercely.  "Oh,  I  believe  some  of  them  myself.  The 
star" — he  drew  Bonaparte  with  him  to  the  door  of  the 


HOW  HE  SAW  HIS  STAR  173 

hut  and  pointed.  "See,  there,  under  Sirius;  that  is 
your  star."  In  the  dark  vault  of  the  sky  close  under 
Sirius  shone  a  star  of  reddish  light. 

While  they  looked,  Suleyman  gave  a  strange  gasp- 
ing sound.  Then  in  a  tone  of  weird  intensity:  "See! 
See !"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  Bonaparte's  spine.  .  .  . 
Beneath  the  red  star  some  vague  thing  gathered — the 
star  was  dim  behind  it — the  form  of  a  man — a  man, 
prone,  distorted,  with  a  stream  of  red  from  his  neck. 
"See  your  star,"  said  Suleyman  hoarsely.  He  took  his 
hand  from  Bonaparte's  neck  and  Bonaparte  swayed  a 
little  as  he  gazed  up  at  that  vision  of  death.  .  .  . 

Suleyman  drew  back  a  step,  gave  one  swift  glance 
round.  His  hands  went  to  his  bosom  a  moment.  Then 
he  dashed  something  upon  the  ground.  There  was  a 
blinding  flash  of  light.  In  the  dead  darkness  that 
followed  he  was  gone.  Jean  Dortan  blundered  after 
him  in  vain. 

Bonaparte  hardly  heeded.  Long  and  long  he  stood 
at  gaze.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  in  the  dawn  he  led  his  army  eastward. 
His  campaign  with  death  was  begun. 


CHAPTER  VI 
HOW  HE  :LOVED  CHILDBEN 

THE  peaks  of  the  seaward  Alps  were  blue  amid  a 
violet  sky.  In  the  tiny  village  by  the  river  all  was 
dark  still,  and  only  the  grey  water's  fret  broke  the 
peace  of  the  dying  night.  Along  the  gloom  of  the 
road,  across  the  pale  millet  fields,  white-coat  sentries 
leant  drowsily  on  their  muskets.  ...  A  keener  blue 
stole  upon  mountain  and  sky.  The  fore  dawn  wind 
came  chill  from  the  snows.  All  the  air  was  alive  and 
murmurous. 

Across  the  millet  a  ghostly  sentry  whistled  shrill. 
Another  whistled  far  down  the  road.  Their  comrades 
woke  to  watch  and  peered  through  the  wavering,  cheat- 
ing light.  The  outermost  man  on  the  road  ran  forward 
a  little  way  and  stood  at  gaze  again.  There  was 
plainly  more  sound  than  wind  or  stream  could  make. 
He  yelled  a  challenge,  had  no  answer  but  the  growing 
sound,  and  fired  his  musket.  Another  sounded,  and 
another.  By  window  and  door  white  coats  tumbled  out 
of  the  village  houses  and  ran  to  and  fro,  unready,  mis- 
handled, blundering.  Dim  horsemen  fled  across  the 
fields.  Louder  and  louder  sound  came  rolling  up  the 
road.  The  mellowing  light  broke  upon  a  steel-flecked 
cloud  of  dust.  On  it  came  and  on,  a  squadron  at  the 
gallop.  The  white-coat  sentries  clustered  and  fired 
a  hopeless  volley.  Their  comrades  were  struggling 
vainly  with  disorder.  In  a  moment  they  were  all  over- 
whelmed and  hurled  out  of  the  village,  and  scattered 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  175 

into  a  thousand  impotent  units  and  brushed  aside. 
Then  the  French  hussars  checked  their  speed  and  flung 
out  a  fan  of  scouts  on  front  and  flank  again,  and  went 
easily  on. 

The  eastern  sky  was  crimson,  the  mountain  snows 
stained  to  a  rosy  glow  above  the  wide,  green  plain, 
when  the  Army  of  Italy  came  swinging  through  the 
village.  It  marched  of  nights  and  slept  the  days,  that 
Army  of  Italy,  and  did  both  heartily.  It  was  gay 
with  success  and  a  vision  of  the  breakfast  that  would 
be  supper,  and  it  sang  songs  to  the  frightened  village 
as  it  passed.  But  most  of  the  village  folk  lurked  behind 
barred  doors.  That  the  Frenchmen  were  angels  of 
light  for  hapless  Italy,  General  Bonaparte  had  said 
loudly  and  often.  But  Italy  was  not  quite  sure. 

From  one  of  the  upland  farms  a  sturdy  peasant 
woman,  bearing  her  babe,  came  down  to  the  village. 
The  passing  army  blocked  her  way.  She  had  no  fear 
of  it,  sat  herself  down  on  a  boulder  at  the  roadside,  and 
watched  the  ranks  swing  by  with  wide,  calm  eyes.  The 
babe  began  to  press  at  her  breast.  All  about  her  fell 
the  morning  light. 

Bonaparte  saw.  He  came  riding  on  his  white 
charger  at  the  head  of  his  staff.  His  face  was  pallid 
from  the  night  march,  but  his  eyes  shone  like  stars  of 
steel.  In  that  glory  of  golden  light  he  saw  the  mother 
and  her  babe,  and  a  wordless  cry  broke  from  him,  and 
he  flung  up  his  hand  in  salute.  .  .  .  And  on  he  went 
with  his  army  to  Piacenza. 

General  Bonaparte  was  educating  himself.  He  was 
a  tyro  in  command  when  he  came  to  Italy.  All  that 
the  books  could  teach  of  generalship  he  knew,  and  some 
little  of  the  nature  of  men  and  the  power  of  powder. 


176  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

But  the  rest,  the  swift  practice  and  the  strain  of  war, 
he  had  to  learn  amid  the  narrow  passes  of  the  seaward 
Alps  and  the  swift  rivers  that  cut  the  Lombard  plain. 
It  was  well  for  him.  To  wield  vast  masses  he  had  no 
skill,  and  for  vast  masses  there  was  no  room  or  use. 
The  eye  that  saw  where  to  strike,  the  unwearied  will, 
the  surge  of  energy — these  were  the  powers  of  victory. 
Cramped  in  the  valleys  the  Austrian  general,  old  Beau- 
lieu,  could  use  no  heavy  force,  and  each  day's  tiny  com- 
bat advanced  General  Bonaparte's  education  in  tactics. 
But  his  methods,  it  was  agreed  by  all  scientific  soldiers, 
were  deplorable.  One  day  Murat  took  prisoner  a  grey- 
haired  Austrian  brigadier,  who  complained  with  fluent 
bitterness.  "Your  general  is  abominable,"  he  cried. 
"He  knows  absolutely  nothing  of  the  simplest  rules. 
To-day  he  is  in  our  rear,  to-morrow  on  our  flank,  next 
day  again  in  our  front.  Such  violations  of  the  princi- 
ples of  the  art  of  war  are  intolerable."  Beaulieu  pro- 
tested to  his  Government  against  the  indignity  of  hav- 
ing to  fight  a  commander  who  had  never  learnt  the 
rudiments  of  his  trade.  But  Bonaparte  continued  to 
fight  his  unprincipled  combats,  and  always  he  was  vic- 
torious, and  always  the  Austrians  cursed  him  for  an 
ignoramus,  and  his  men  hailed  him  a  genius,  and  he 
knew  he  was  at  school. 

Perhaps  it  was  more  than  his  own  fame  and  power 
he  sought.  Perhaps  there  were  grand,  vague  designs 
in  his  brain.  Perhaps  he  cheated  himself,  as  he  cheated 
others,  into  believing  that  he  would  make  Italy  a  new 
land.  "Men  of  Italy" — so  his  proclamations  ran — 
"men  of  Italy,  we  are  not  foes,  but  friends.  We  bear 
arms,  but  they  are  the  arms  of  freedom.  We  war  not 
with  you,  but  with  tyrants.  Too  long  has  Italy  been 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  177. 

divided  against  herself.  Those  who  have  torn  her 
asunder  have  made  you  slaves.  We  come  to  free 
you  and  to  make  you  one.  Men  of  Italy,  awake! 
Strike  and  be  free !  United,  renew  your  ancient  glories. 
Let  the  might  of  Italy  create  again  the  arts  of  Italy, 
and  make  her  the  pride  of  the  world.  Men  of  Italy, 
to  arms !" 

The  men  of  Italy  were  in  no  hurry.  The  din  of 
Bonaparte  startled  their  blood  and  woke  it  from  the 
sleep  of  centuries,  but  for  action  they  were  not  nerved 
yet.  Bonaparte  thrust  forward  across  Lombardy,  and 
village  and  town  stood  aloof  to  watch  him  in  wonder 
and  fear. 

It  was  not  till  he  was  over  the  Ticino,  till  he  was 
into  Fombio,  that  he  came  upon  Ambrogio  Rossi.  Of 
Ambrogio  Rossi  you  may  have  heard  as  a  bad  poet. 
He  had  the  ill-luck  to  be  that  and  a  cripple.  There 
is  nothing  else  against  him.  He  hated  towns,  and  he 
had  a  taste  for  cows — wherein  he  has  the  sympathy  of 
some  good  men.  He  was  the  only  child  of  a  notable 
tanner  in  Milan,  and  bred  there.  But  certain  abom- 
inable women  mocked  at  his  queer  limbs  (there  is  a 
poor,  grim  poem  about  it),  and  the  lad  begged  leave 
to  flee  the  town.  He  set  up  his  home  in  the  rich 
meadows  between  the  Adda  and  the  Ticino,  and  there 
all  his  life  he  and  his  cows  made  cheese,  and  he  fathoms 
of  poetry.  Also,  if  there  was  a  child  lacking  parents 
Ambrogio  Rossi  would  take  it  in.  He  was  a  person 
of  enthusiasms.  He  lived  in  dreams  of  Italy's  great 
days :  he  looked  for  another  Augustus  to  found  anew 
the  golden  age  of  Saturn. 

Ambrogio  Rossi  read  Bonaparte's  sounding  procla- 
mations, and — his  heart  was  ever  better  than  his  taste 


178  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY. 

— believed.  He  glorified  "the  young  god  of  war"  in 
alarming  verse.  He  preached  him  to  the  country  folk, 
and  they  listened  with  a  smile  and  a  shrug  and  a 
stealthy  sign  against  the  evil  eye.  For  after  all,  Am- 
brogio  Rossi,  though  a  kindly  soul  and  eager  father  to 
the  fatherless,  was  a  cripple,  and  so  of  the  same  blood 
as  the  devil.  When  Bonaparte  marched  into  Fombio, 
Ambrogio  was  much  exalted. 

Bonaparte  sat  at  his  ease  in  the  inn  devouring  a 
chicken  cooked  with  oil  and  onions  when  Jean  Dortan 
announced  a  visitor  for  him.  "Humph!"  Bonaparte 
questioned,  with  his  mouth  full. 

"He  talks  very  bad  French,"  Jean  Dortan  com- 
plained. "All  these  people  do  if  they  talk  at  all.  He 
says  you  are  Augustus,  and  he  is  your  Virgil  and  your 
Horace.  I  think  he  means  that  he  is  a  poor  devil  of  a 
poet.  Do  you  want  one?" 

"My  big  Jean,"  said  Bonaparte,  wiping  his  mouth, 
"I  shall  want  a  choir  of  them." 

Jean  Dortan  looked  at  Bonaparte  distrustful  of  his 
wits.  "Well!"  says  he.  "This  one  has  some  angels  of 
children."  And  he  went  out  to  produce  Ambrogio 
Rossi. 

Ambrogio  shambled  in,  one  miserable  leg  working 
round  the  other,  and  stood  bowing.  He  was  wholly 
ugly.  The  distorted  limbs,  the  bent  body,  were  crowned 
by  a  big  neckless  head  with  stiff,  bristly  black  hair. 
His  features  were  deep-hewn  and  large  and  ill-shaped. 
The  little  eyes  that  blinked  at  Bonaparte  had  no  cer- 
tain colour. 

"Master  poet,  all  hail !"  said  Bonaparte  with  a  smile, 
and  Ambrogio  bowed  again. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  the  children  behind  him. 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  179 

Ambrogio  beckoned  them  forward.  "Pentesilea! 
Ettorre!  Do  honour  to  the  master  of  men,"  he  cried 
in  Italian.  The  girl  and  boy  knelt  and  kissed  Bona- 
parte's hand.  He  was  plainly  gratified.  A  rare  smile 
warmed  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  down  at  them.  They  were 
good  enough  to  see:  a  sturdy  boy  of  the  north  with 
brigjit,  fair  hair  and  round  cheeks,  pink  and  white  as 
the  snow  at  dawn,  a  girl  with  dark  red  lips  and  face 
and  neck  of  ivory,  and  eyes  black  as  the  wild  curls  of 
her  hair.  "I  have  here  some  odes  to  you,  my  lord," 
said  Ambrogio,  "in  the  manner  of  Horace.  And  the 
exordium  of  an  epic  on  Italy  born  again  by  your  aid: 
in  this  I  emulate  Virgil." 

"Give  me  an  ode  or  so,"  said  Bonaparte,  and  swung 
round  his  chair  and  beckoned  the  children  closer.  They 
examined  him  awhile  in  the  grave,  judicial  manner  of 
childhood,  and  were  satisfied  and  came  to  his  side. 
Bonaparte  lifted  Pentesilea  upon  his  knee.  She  was 
something  frightened  at  that,  and  leant  away  from 
him  and  reached  with  swift  fingers  for  Ettorre's  hand. 

Ettorre  let  her  have  it,  but  he  laughed  wisely,  and: 
"She'll  never  be  truly  a  soldier,  you  know,"  he  con- 
fided to  Bonaparte.  "She  always  wants  to  hold 
hands." 

"Oh !"  Pentesilea  renounced  him.  "It  is  not  always. 
You  untruth!  And  every  one  wants  to  hold  hands 
sometimes,  don't  they?"  she  appealed  to  Bonaparte. 

"I  never  knew  a  soldier  who  did  not,"  said  Bona- 
parte. "But  hush  now."  For  Ambrogio  was  swaying 
on  his  stick  in  his  eagerness  to  recite. 

"I  hope  it  will  be  a  bloody  one,"  said  Pentesilea  in 
a  loud  whisper  to  Ettorre. 

The   ode   began:     "Latest   born   of   great    Cesar's 


180  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

stock,  thou  that  majestically  drivest  the  blazing  chariot 
of  red  war  upon  the  pale  foes  of  the  good  Italian  land, 
hail  and  thrice  and  four  times  hail!  I  sing  thy  glory 
and  the  throng  of  thy  deeds  for  the  fair  crown  of  all 
the  lands  of  the  world."  Never  mind  the  rest.  It  was 
the  best  he  had.  And  Bonaparte  liked  it  well:  his 
favourite  poet  was  Ossian. 

"It  is  well  done.  It  is  great,"  said  he  at  the  end, 
and  probably  believed  it.  Then  with  that  manner  of 
the  stage  that  was  nature  in  him:  "It  is  great  as  my 
own  deeds !"  he  cried,  and  Pentesilea  looked  at  him  with 
wide  eyes.  "Your  fame  and  mine  shall  go  down  the 
ages  together." 

"In  the  good  cause  of  Italy !"  cried  Ambrogio  Rossi, 
his  little  eyes  aflame. 

"Ah,  yes.  For  Italy,"  said  Bonaparte,  and  began  to 
play  with  Pentesilea's  hair. 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  said  Pentesilea.  "I  am 
going  to  be  a  soldier." 

Bonaparte  pinched  her  chin.  "It  will  be  enough  to 
be  the  wife  and  mother  of  soldiers." 

"Is  that  as  nice?"  said  Pentesilea  dubiously. 

"Of  course  not,"  Ettorre  assured  her.  "You  cannot 
have  the  nicest  things.  You  are  a  girl." 

Pentesilea's  black  eyes  became  very  large.  "It  is  not 
fair,  is  it?"  she  appealed  to  Bonaparte. 

"It  is  more  honour  to  have  the  harder  tasks,"  said 
Bonaparte. 

Pentesilea's  lips  were  incredulous.  "But  I  am  going 
to  be  a  soldier,"  she  insisted. 

Bonaparte  laughed,  and  turned  from  the  children's 
straight  lissom  bodies  to  glance  curiously  at  the  crip- 
ple. "Are  they  your  children,  poet?"  he  said. 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  181 

Ambrogio  flushed  and  shuffled  his  feet.  The  hope  of 
children  was  not  for  him.  "They  call  me  father,"  he 
said. 

"Why,  of  course !"  cried  Pentesilea,  and  her  eyes 
gave  Bonaparte  challenge.  "He  is  the  very  dearest 
father  in  all  the  world."  Ambrogio  stumped  forward 
and  laid  his  big  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  she  put  down 
her  cheek  to  caress  it. 

But  Ettorre  was  only  interested  in  Bonaparte.  His 
round  blue  eyes  were  set  upon  the  combatant  strength 
of  that  face.  "When  did  you  begin  to  be  a  soldier?" 
Ettorre  asked. 

"I  was  a  soldier  as  soon  as  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Bona- 
parte, smiling. 

"I  was  like  that,"  said  Ettorre  with  satisfaction. 
"You  know  I  am  going  to  be  a  great  soldier  and  make 
Italy  all  one  country." 

Ambrogio  smiled.  "If  our  lord  here  does  not  do  it 
first,"  said  he. 

"Oh !    Oh,  will  you?"  Ettorre  was  crestfallen. 

"Tell  me" — Pentesilea  was  in  a  hurry — "tell  me,  do 
you  have  to  be  very  big  to  be  a  soldier?  You  are  not 
very  big,  you  know,"  she  reminded  Bonaparte. 

"I  think  I  am  big  enough,"  said  Bonaparte. 

"There !"  She  was  relieved.  "Ettorre  said  I  wouldn't 
ever  be  big  enough.  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  as  big  as 
you.  Oh!  but  I  suppose  you  have  to  be  very  brave? 
Have  you  been  brave?" 

"Tell,  oh,  do  tell!"  cried  Ettorre,  pressing  against 
him. 

Bonaparte,  in  no  way  loath,  began  to  talk  of  his 
deeds.  Of  his  duel  at  Valence  he  told  them,  and  strange 
Corsican  forays  and  the  grim  wrestle,  with  the  English 


182  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

seamen  at  Toulon,  the  storm  of  the  redoubt  and  the 
frenzied  building  of  the  batteries,  and  the  tempest  of 
flame  and  death. 

The  children  gazed  at  him,  rapt  in  a  trance  of 
delight,  their  eyes  dilated,  their  breath  short  and  quick. 
When  he  was  done  they  could  not  speak,  but  still  they 
gazed  at  him,  and  Pentesilea  stroked  his  arm  timidly. 

"Come  now,  children,"  said  Ambrogio,  "thank  our 
lord  and  come  away." 

"Oh,  no!  No!"  cried  Pentesilea,  clinging  to  Bona- 
parte's arm. 

"You  can  go,  father,"  said  Ettorre  curtly  over  his 
shoulder. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  Ambrogio  Rossi  looked  at  him 
with  no  love,  and  then  down  at  the  children,  and  his 
ugliness  was  veiled  in  a  sad,  tender  smile.  "Come, 
my  dears,  come  with  me,"  he  said  gently. 

But  it  was  plain  they  liked  Bonaparte  better,  and 
with  difficulty,  bearing  swift  angry  glances,  and  seeing 
their  eyes  turn  eagerly  again  to  Bonaparte,  Ambrogio 
shepherded  them  away. 

Bonaparte  watched  them  with  a  strange  kindliness 
in  his  eyes  and  something  of  hunger.  "A  good  night !" 
he  cried.  "A  good  night !  Come  to  me  in  the  morning 
and  you  shall  see  my  soldiers." 

He  heard  Pentesilea's  delightful  cry,  "Fine !"  as  they 
went  out,  and  a  gay,  glad  chatter  growing  fainter. 

A  while  after,  as  Bonaparte  sat  over  a  map  of 
Adda  valley,  Murat  swaggered  in,  his  hussar  uniform 
mud  from  plume  to  spur.  Bonaparte  signed  him  to  a 
chair. 

"They  are  all  over  the  river,"  said  Murat,  sitting 
down  with  a  grunt  of  weariness,  "and  over  the  river 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  183 

I  cannot  get.  They've  guns  in  position  by  the  bridge 
at  Lodi." 

"How  many?"  snapped  Bonaparte. 

"Too  many  for  me,"  said  Murat  with  a  shrug.  "And 
the  river  is  in  spate  with  the  snow-water  from  here  to 
Como.  Devil  a  ford  or  a  ferry." 

"It  is  the  bridge  at  Lodi,  then?"  Bonaparte  asked. 
Murat  nodded.  "I  must  know  what  their  strength  is 
there."  But  Murat  shrugged.  "Find  out  to-morrow," 
said  Bonaparte. 

"I  shall  find  out  if  any  one  can,"  said  Murat. 

"That  is  true,"  said  Bonaparte  with  a  smile,  an3 
Murat  pulled  himself  up  and  swaggered  out. 

So  in  the  morning  Murat  went  off  with  his  cavalry 
upon  a  new  reconnaissance.  But  again  he  failed.  That 
bridge  at  Lodi  was  cunningly  held,  and  what  force  the 
Austrians  had  he  could  not  guess.  The  river  ran  far 
too  swift  and  deep  for  horsemen. 

Bonaparte  was  writing  his  sixty-ninth  dispatch  to 
those  troublesome  Directors  in  Paris  when  Pentesilea's 
red  lips  and  black  eyes  appeared  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table.  "You  promised!"  said  Pentesilea. 

Bonaparte  beckoned  to  her,  and  when  she  came, 
kissed  those  delectable  lips.  Pentesilea  did  not  object, 
but  he  beheld  in  the  doorway  Ettorre's  round  eyes 
accusing  him  of  conduct  unworthy  a  soldier.  With  one 
arm  round  Pentesilea,  Bonaparte  finished  his  dispatch 
in  two  curt  sentences,  and  rose  and  put  on  his  hat 
and  gravely  saluted  Pentesilea  to  her  joy,  and  led 
her  out. 

Ambrogio  Rossi  was  there  with  Ettorre,  and  he 
bowed  low  to  Bonaparte.  "My  children  do  not  trouble 
you,  my  lord?"  he  asked  anxiously. 


184  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Children  are  the  most  tolerable  of  all  things,"  said 
Bonaparte. 

Ambrogio  winced.  "Is  that  all?"  he  said,  half  to 
himself. 

"It  saves  loving  them  too  much  to  remember  that 
they  will  be  men  and  women,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Ambrogio  flushed.  It  seems  that  a  sneer  at  mankind 
always  hurt  him.  The  children  were  staring  at  Bona- 
parte. They  had  not  understood,  but  they  felt  a  dis- 
cord. "I  do  not  think  one  can  love  too  much,  my  lord," 
said  Ambrogio. 

Bonaparte  gave  a  queer  laugh.  Then  he  looked 
down  at  the  two  children.  "Who  wants  to  see  my 
cannon?"  he  asked.  But  they  hesitated  a  moment. 
There  was  something  unlovely  in  his  eyes. 

Then  Ettorre  became  brave  and  sidled  up  to  him. 
"I  suppose  you  could  not  have  one  of  your  cannons 
fired?" 

"Come  and  see,"  said  Bonaparte,  and  strode  on  with 
the  children  dancing  round  him. 

Ambrogio  followed  painfully,  falling  farther  and 
farther  behind.  The  children  had  forgotten  him  alto- 
gether, and  he  watched  their  wild  gladness.  Then  came 
a  heavy  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  Jean  Dortan's: 
"What,  comrade!  Have  they  left  you?  Well,  our 
Little  Man  makes  every  one  follow  him.  But  he'll  do 
them  no  harm.  He  loves  children  better  than  anything 
but  himself." 

Ambrogio  turned  suddenly  on  Jean  Dortan:  "And 
do  children  love  him?" 

Jean  Dortan  rubbed  his  big  chin  as  he  looked  at 
Ambrogio.  "That  is  what  I  do  not  know,"  he  admitted. 
"But  he  wants  them  to."  Still  he  considered  Ambrogio. 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  185 

"You  please  me,  you  know.  Come,  talk  with  me  till 
they  are  back.  I  have  never  talked  to  a  poet." 

Ambrogio  bowed.  "I  am  wholly  at  your  service," 
said  he,  but  he  looked  wistfully  after  his  children. 

Jean  Dortan  saw  it.  "What,  you  like  to  keep  them 
in  sight?  Well,  that  is  wholesome.  Your  arm, 
poet." 

So,  resting  on  Jean  Dortan's  sturdy  arm,  Am- 
brogio came  stumping  behind  Bonaparte.  "My  lord 
your  general,  he  will  do  great  things  for  Italy?"  said 
he  to  Jean  Dortan. 

"I  have  known  our  Little  Man  a  year  or  two,  and 
I  do  not  know  what  he  can't  do,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 
"But  what  do  you  expect?" 

"Ah,  my  friend,  I  see  your  general  cast  down  the 
tyrants  and  the  barriers  of  tyranny.  I  see  all  Italy 
one  nation  again,  mighty  in  war  and  great  in  law,  and 
all  the  arts  of  peace.  It  is  for  the  soul  of  Italy  your 
general  fights.  He  will  bring  us  back  the  golden  age. 
I  praise  him,  I  honour  him  with  the  greatest  heroes." 

"Why,  so  do  I,"  Jean  Dortan  admitted,  but  he 
looked  at  Ambrogio  queerly. 

Bonaparte  had  brought  the  children  to  the  artillery 
lines,  and  they  were  clambering  joyously  over  wheels 
and  limbers.  Bonaparte  had  a  gun  horsed  for  them, 
and  while  they  watched  the  hurry  of  the  men,  "I  sup- 
pose you  know  how  to  fire  a  cannon  yourself?"  said 
Pentesilea. 

Bonaparte  admitted  it  with  a  smile.  "I  would  have 
to  be  grown  up  first,  wouldn't  I?"  Pentesilea  inquired 
wistfully. 

"Girls  don't  grow  up.  They're  only  women,"  said 
Ettorre  brusquely.  "Are  gunners  very  brave?  Which 


186  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

are  the  bravest  soldiers?  I  suppose  generals  have  to 
be  very  brave?" 

"Generals  have  to  be  brave  with  other  men's  lives," 
said  Bonaparte.  "That  is  hardest  of  all." 

"I  am  going  to  be  a  general,"  said  Ettorre.  "Oh, 
does  a  general  ride  a  horse?" 

"He  always  wants  to  be  the  general,"  Pentesilea 
complained,  making  a  face  at  him.  "What  is  the  next 
bravest  thing  to  a  general,  please?" 

"A  spy,  perhaps,"  said  Bonaparte  with  a  smile. 

"Then  I  shall  be  a  spy,"  said  Pentesilea. 

Bonaparte  started  and  looked  curiously  at  the  pure, 
childish  face,  the  deep,  dark  eyes. 

"Will  you  make  me  a  general?"  Ettorre  appealed. 

Bonaparte  turned  with  a  laugh  and  saluted  him. 
The  field  gun  stood  ready  now  with  its  horses.  "My 
general,"  said  Bonaparte,  "there  is  your  artillery. 
What  will  you  do  with  it?"  Ettorre  put  his  finger  in 
his  mouth. 

Bonaparte  cried  an  order  to  the  gunners,  and  off 
went  the  gun  at  a  gallop,  wheeled  and  came  back,  and 
halted  again  and  unlimbered.  "They  are  going  to  let 
it  off !"  cried  Pentesilea  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  Next 
moment  the  twelve-pounder  flamed  and  roared.  Pente- 
silea looked  swiftly  at  Ettorre,  and  Ettorre  at  her. 
"I  did  not,"  said  Pentesilea  indignant.  "I  did  not 
shiver  one  bit.  And  you  are  horrid." 

"She  is  rather  good  for  a  girl,"  Ettorre  confided  to 
Bonaparte. 

Then  the  gunners  made  wonderful  driving  for  them 
and  they  rejoiced,  and  Ambrogio,  who  had  a  cripple's 
delight  in  the  sight  of  swift  movement.  Bonaparte 
took  them  on  through  the  lines  and  put  a  squadron  of 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  1ST 

cuirassiers  through  its  paces  for  them,  and  sent  them 
away  intoxicated  with  pleasure.  Dancing  round  Am- 
brogio  they  went,  and  Bonaparte  stood  watching  them 
a  long  while. 

"They  are  angels,  those  children,  in  fact,"  said  Jean 
Dortan  at  his  elbow. 

Bonaparte  turned.  The  look  in  his  eyes  was  not 
that  which  one  would  use  for  angels. 

That  night  Murat  came  in  wearied  again  and  out 
of  heart.  "There  is  no  way  over  this  curst  river  but 
that  curst  bridge,"  he  announced.  "And  whether  it's 
an  army  or  a  rear-guard  they  have  there  the  devil 
knows,  who  made  the  curst  country.  You'll  have  to 
retreat  on  Piacenza,  Captain  Cannon." 

"This  army  cannot  afford  to  retreat,"  said  Bona- 
parte. "It  does  not  believe  in  itself  enough." 

"Then  you'll  break  your  head,"  said  Murat. 

"When  have  you  known  me  fail,  Murat?" 

The  next  morning  at  dawn,  Murat  and  he  rode  up 
the  crest  of  the  hills  above  the  river,  and  scanned  the 
rolling  plain  beyond  where  the  Austrians  were  hidden. 
"As  I  told  you,"  Murat  cried.  "There  is  nothing  to  see." 

Bonaparte  studied  the  crest  of  the  hills  a  while.  Then 
he  turned,  and  led  on  down  till  they  came  to  a  ruddy 
stone  homestead  circled  with  mulberry  trees.  Pente- 
silea  and  Ettorre  came  running  to  meet  them.  "Is 
there  any  one  here  would  like  to  ride?"  cried  Bona- 
parte, and  they  both  made  a  plunge  at  his  stirrup. 
"Trust  them  to  me !"  he  called  to  Ambrogio  in  the  door- 
way, tossed  Pentesilea  to  Murat,  swung  Ettorre  up 
in  front  of  him,  and  went  off.  Ambrogio  stood  in  the 
sunlight  desolate. 

Bonaparte  galloped  to  his  quarters.     Laughing  and 


188  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

flushed  from  the  speed  and  mad  of  eye  the  children  were 
set  down,  and  he  bustled  them  in.  Then  with  Pentesilea 
on  one  knee  and  Ettorre  by  the  other:  "Now!"  said 
he.  "Who  was  it  wanted  to  be  a  soldier?"  The  chil- 
dren cried  out  together.  "And  I  want  to  make  you 
both  soldiers  for  Italy."  Pentesilea  clutched  him,  and 
gave  a  gurgle  of  joy.  Ettorre's  round  eyes  grew 
larger  and  rounder,  and  he  chuckled.  But  the  grey 
light  in  Bonaparte's  eyes  was  keen  and  cold.  "Look 
you,  soldiers  of  mine,  it  is  like  this.  Somewhere  beyond 
the  river  the  Austrians  are  waiting  to  fight  me.  But  I 
do  not  know  how  many  Austrians  there  are,  or  how  far 
away  they  are.  I  want  you  to  go  and  find  out  and 
tell  me." 

"Oh!"  Ettorre's  face  fell.  "I  thought  it  would  be 
fighting." 

"Silly!"  said  Pentesilea  over  her  shoulder.  Then 
eagerly  to  Bonaparte,  "It's  being  a  spy?"  Bonaparte 
nodded.  His  eyes  were  steady  and  cold.  "And  that 
is  the  bravest  thing  of  all  except  you,"  she  cried. 
"I  am  going.  Oh,  you  can  stay  if  you  like,  Ettorre. 
I  am  going." 

"Of  course  I  shall  go,"  said  Ettorre  sulkily;  "I 
shall  be  leader." 

"This  will  be  the  way,"  said  Bonaparte.  "You  will 
pretend  that  you  are  selling  olives.  See,  there  are  two 
little  barrels  of  them.  When  you  come  to  the  bridge 
at  Lodi  you  will  find  Austrians  in  white  coats  on  guard 
there.  You  will  ask  them  to  buy  olives.  Do  not  sell 
too  cheaply.  Then  say  you  are  going  to  sell  the  rest 
to  the  army.  Count  how  many  strides  it  is  from  the 
bridge  to  where  you  come  upon  the  army.  When  you 
have  found  it,  try  to  sell  the  men  more  olives.  But, 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  189 

above  all,  see  how  big  that  army  is.  You  know  how 
big  mine  is.  See  if  that  is  bigger.  See  if  it  is  less. 
See  if  there  are  any  guns,  and  try  to  count  how  many. 
But  always  pretend  that  you  are  there  just  to  sell 
clives.  Do  not  let  them  think  you  want  anything  else. 
Do  not  say  one  word  of  me.  That  would  spoil  it  all. 
That  would  show  you  are  no  good  soldiers." 

"It  is  easy.  It  is  like  a  game,"  said  Ettorre  some- 
what sulkily.  But  Pentesilea's  black  eyes  were  aglow. 

"It  will  be  a  great  deed  for  Italy,"  said  Bonaparte, 
staring  full  at  Ettorre. 

"Oh,  well — of  course,  I  can  do  it  easily,"  said  the 
boy. 

Pentesilea  sprang  down  from  Bonaparte's  knee. 
"Oh,  it  is  fine,  fine!"  she  cried,  and  she  caught  up  one 
of  the  barrels  of  olives  and  came  to  Bonaparte  with  a 
flick  of  a  curtsy  and  a  roguish  smile.  "Will  it  please 
you  buy  my  pretty  olives,  kind  soldier?"  said  she. 
Then,  "Oh,  Ettorre,  you  do  look  stupid.  Come!" 
Kissing  her  hand  to  Bonaparte,  out  she  went. 

Ettorre  followed  her  grumbling:  "It's  very  well  for 
a  girl." 

When  they  were  gone  Bonaparte  leant  back  and 
looked  up  at  Murat  with  a  smile.  Then  he  gave  orders 
to  have  four  batteries  brought  into  position  on  the  hills 
above  the  river. 

There  are  those  who  keep  their  worst  abuse  of  him 
for  this  affair  of  the  child  spies.  Bonaparte  himself, 
I  am  very  sure,  saw  no  harm  in  it.  It  was  incredible 
that  any  sapient  Austrian  could  detect  a  spy  in  those 
eyes  of  springtime.  Or  if  by  a  miracle  they  were 
accused,  no  man  would  have  the  heart  to  kill  the  chil- 
dren. They  would  be  safe  enough.  That  it  was  vile 


190  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

to  use  a  child  on  a  spy's  work,  to  plunge  the  clean 
heart  of  a  child  into  all  the  filth  of  the  intrigue  of 
war — you  would  not  expect  Bonaparte  to  feel  that. 
Yet  they  say,  and  I  profess  I  believe  it,  they  say  he 
loved  all  children.  A  dwarf  love?  A  love  with  no 
power  in  it?  It  was  all  he  had  for  the  best  things. 
That  is  the  tragedy  of  him. 

The  children  tripped  away,  Ettorre  something  glum, 
Pentesilea  exultant  in  a  new  game  of  make-believe,  to 
the  long  bridge  that  towered  above  the  brown,  swift 
stream  of  the  Adda.  The  white-coat  outposts  were 
lounging  upon  their  arms.  Pentesilea  came  up  smiling 
with  her  little  barrel  of  olives. 

"Ha,  my  lass,  and  where  are  you  from?"  says  an 
officer  in  clumsy  Italian. 

"From  Fombio,  if  you  please,  sir,  with  olives  to  sell. 
See,  such  fine  olives !" 

"Humph !    Why  don't  you  sell  them  to  the  French  ?" 

Behind  her  smiles  Pentesilea  reflected:  "Because  I 
thought  you  would  give  me  more  money,  sir,"  said  she. 

The  Austrian  laughed.  "Well,  you  are  a  frank  babe. 
Is  that  your  brother?  Has  he  olives,  too?  How  much 
will  you  take  for  them  all?" 

Pentesilea  was  frightened.  If  she  sold  all  the  olives 
to  the  outpost,  they  could  not  go  on  to  the  army.  She 
looked  anxiously  at  Ettorre.  Ettorre  took  a  step  for- 
ward. "You  would  not  have  enough  money  to  buy 
them  all,"  he  said  stolidly. 

The  Austrian  laughed  loud.  "Heaven,  you  are  a 
pair  of  baby  misers!  Now" — he  brought  out  an  Aus- 
trian florin — "how  many  olives  will  that  buy?" 

Pentesilea  gave  him  a  handful,  and  another,  and 
another.  The  Austrian  waited  for  more.  Pentesilea 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  191 

shook  her  head.  "Oh  no,"  said  she,  "I  have  given  you 
a  great  many  because  I  like  you." 

"So,"  said  the  Austrian  grinning.  "And  will  you 
give  me  a  kiss  too,  little  one." 

"Oh!"  Pentesilea  flushed  delicately  and  drew  back. 
It  was  strangely  hard  to  kiss  when  you  were  cheating. 

Ettorre  came  in  front  of  her.  "You  must  not  be 
rude  to  my  sister,"  said  he. 

The  Austrian  slapped  his  thigh.  "Brave  babes,  by 
thunder !  Here's  your  florin.  If  you  sell  all  your  olives 
as  well  you'll  be  rich." 

"Shall  we  have  far  to  go  to  find  more  soldiers, 
please,"  said  Pentesilea  timidly. 

"The  inside  of  a  mile,  sweetheart.  Wait,  we'll  sell 
you  some  more  here."  Much  against  their  will  the 
children  were  kept  a  while  longer  while  he  joked  at 
them  with  his  brother  officers,  and  chaffered  their 
olives. 

When  they  were  off  again,  hurrying  over  the  long 
bridge,  "He  was  nice,"  said  Pentesilea  in  a  whisper. 
"It's  a  little  horrid,  isn't  it,  Ettorre?" 

"One  hundred  and  one,  one  hundred  and  two,"  Et- 
torre mumbled.  He  was  counting  his  paces  as  Bona- 
parte had  bidden. 

It  was  five  hundred  of  the  childish  strides  before  they 
mounted  the  first  ridge  of  the  rolling  plain  beyond  the 
bridge,  and  there  found  a  battery  cunningly  hidden. 
The  gunners  were  lying  about  their  guns.  Ettorre 
nudged  Pentesilea  forward,  and  she  went  with  a  timid, 
wintry  smile,  dumbly  offering  her  olives.  The  gunners 
had  no  appetite  for  olives,  and  they  swore  at  her,  and 
she,  used  only  to  kindliness,  shrank  away.  Then  one 
fellow  amused  himself  by  gripping  her  soft  arm  and 


192  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

twisting  it  till  she  screamed.  Ettorre  ran  up  and  pulled 
her  away,  and  they  scurried  off.  Then,  with  the  pain 
tears  standing  in  her  eyes,  "Ettorre,  it  is  horrible," 
she  gasped.  "Please  let  us  go  back." 

"O  coward!"  said  Ettorre  scornfully.  "I  am  going 
on.  There  were  forty-five  guns  there." 

Biting  her  lip  she  trudged  on  in  Ettorre's  footprints. 
It  was  some  two  thousand  more  of  their  steps  before 
they  came  upon  the  Austrian  camp.  They  wandered 
in  among  the  tents,  Ettorre  offering  his  olives  here  and 
there,  and  Pentesilea  hiding  herself  close  behind  him, 
till  at  last  they  found  a  boisterous  captain  who  tossed 
Pentesilea  up  on  his  shoulder  and  put  her  and  her  olives 
up  to  auction  among  his  mess.  Ettorre  stood  away, 
more  concerned  for  the  numbers  of  the  tents  than  her. 
Ten  florins  were  bid,  and  the  bid  taken,  and  they  jeered 
at  Pentesilea,  white  and  frightened,  and  made  her  buy 
her  freedom  with  a  kiss.  When  at  last  she  was  let  go, 
she  caught  Ettorre's  hand  and  dragged  him  on  as  fast 
as  she  could  run.  "You  are  a  silly  coward,"  said 
Ettorre,  forcing  her  to  a  walk. 

"I  hate  them.    I  hate  it,"  Pentesilea  gasped. 

"You're  stupid,"  said  Ettorre.  "I've  done  it  all 
splendidly.  I  know  it  all.  I  wonder  what  he  will 
make  me?" 

But  Pentesilea  was  only  concerned  to  hurry.  With 
no  more  troubles,  with  nothing  worse  than  a  kindly 
word  from  their  first  friend  at  the  bridge,  they  were 
back  again  and  away  past  Lodi  town  to  Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte  was  in  his  quarters  with  Berthier  and 
dispatches,  but  dispatches  and  Berthier  were  thrust 
aside  when  they  came  in,  and,  "Well,  my  pocket  gen- 
erals?" Bonaparte  cried. 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  193 

"I  know  it !  I  know  it  all !"  Ettorre  panted.  "It  is 
five  hundred  of  my  steps  from  the  bridge  before  you 
come  to  the  guns,  and  they  have  forty-five  guns,  I 
think,  or  forty-eight.  And  then  two  thousand  and 
seven  more  steps,  and  we  came  to  an  army — it  is  a  big 
army — I  think  it  is  as  big  as  yours.  I  counted  six 
rows  of  tents,  and  there  were  twenty  at  least  in  a  row. 
They  are  all  big  men,  bigger  than  yours."  He  stopped 
breathless. 

Bonaparte  gazed  past  him  away  into  the  vague,  and 
his  eyes  glittered.  .  .  .  Then  he  turned  suddenly  to 
Berthier,  and  gave  curt  orders  for  new  artillery  posi- 
tions, and  as  Berthier  ran  out  he  followed.  He  strode 
away  to  Massena  and  then  to  Lannes,  and  the  children 
pattered  after  him,  Ettorre  glad-eyed  and  eager,  Pen- 
tesilea  clinging  to  Ettorre. 

Now  bugles  cried  along  the  lines,  and  everywhere 
regiments  were  running  to  arms,  a  swift  medley  of  blue 
and  steel  and  scarlet.  The  children's  hearts  throbbed 
to  the  wild  colour.  Bonaparte  walked  on  toward  the 
river  alone,  his  hands  laced  behind  his  back,  his  head 
erect,  his  eyes  gazing  away  through  space.  Beyond 
Lodi  town  close  above  the  river  he  came  to  a  stand, 
and  keenly  searched  the  farther  bank.  Berthier  and 
Marmont  and  others  of  his  staff  and  the  huge  Jean 
Dortan  came  riding  up.  Jean  Dortan  saw  the  little 
folks  with  a  shout  of  horror.  "Name  of  a  fat  dog! 
This  is  no  place  for  you,  little  ones.  Hie  away  home !" 

Bonaparte  turned — Pentesilea  was  shrinking,  Et- 
torre stood  his  ground  defiantly — Bonaparte  gave  his 
thin-lipped  smile.  "Let  be !"  he  said.  "Let  be !  They 
will  see  war  to-day." 

Jean  Dortan  grumbled  something,  but  before  it  was 


194  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

out  Bonaparte  sent  him  off  for  a  horse,  and  he  went, 
grumbling  still  and  beckoning  to  the  children.  But 
Ettorre  would  not  go,  though  Pentesilea  was  eager 
and  urgent.  He  wished  the  fight. 

Now  Bonaparte's  blue-coated  infantry  were  coming 
up  by  brigades  at  a  gay,  lilting  step.  The  Austrian 
guard  on  the  bridge  saw  the  movement,  and  sent  off 
gallopers  to  their  battery  and  the  main  army.  They 
fell  back  from  the  bridge  head,  and  began  to  tear  up 
the  timbers.  Bonaparte  spoke  to  one  of  his  staff.  A 
signal  was  waved  to  the  French  gunners  on  the  hill,  and 
at  once  the  green  hillside  vomited  flame,  and  on  the 
bridge  broke  a  tempest  of  spattering  shot.  The  white- 
coat  Austrians  ran  like  rabbits,  but  some  were  left  in 
a  ghastly  mass. 

Pentesilea  gasped  something,  and  caught  at  Ettor- 
re's  hand.  But  Ettorre  shook  her  offv  He  was  gazing 
at  Bonaparte  with  mad,  bright  eyes.  Bonaparte's  face 
was  set  in  pale  strength.  He  thundered  an  order 
through  the  din,  and  one  of  his  staff  was  away  to  the 
infantry.  Lannes  formed  a  dense  column,  and  hurled 
it  at  the  bridge.  .  .  .  On  the  farther  shore  they  could 
see  the  white  coats  digging  madly  at  the  piers.  Be- 
yond, the  main  army  was  coming  in  a  hurry. 

The  head  of  the  French  column  was  upon  the  bridge 
when  the  Austrian  batteries  opened  fire.  Blasted  by 
that  iron  tempest  the  column  reeled,  and  its  front  ranks 
melted  away  and  it  blenched  and  wavered  and  stag- 
gered back  disorderly. 

Then  Bonaparte  gave  a  cry  of  rage,  sprang  forward, 
and  rushed  down  to  the  beaten  column — he  and  his  staff 
after  him,  and  Ettorre  dashing  among  the  horses. 
Pentesilea  stood  alone  all  trembling,  while  the  air 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  195 

boomed  with  that  devil's  thunder  of  artillery:  she 
looked  at  the  ghastly  harvest  of  death  and  torment: 
she  turned  and  fled  wildly  for  home.  Her  black  hair 
streamed  on  the  wind.  Her  face  was  white  and  writhen 
with  the  misery  of  slaughter. 

Grey  smoke  rolled  in  cloud-banks  down  the  valley, 
and  the  green  bosoms  of  the  hills  on  either  side  were 
seared  with  flames.  The  white-coat  Austrian  army, 
clumsily  jammed  together,  was  in  haste  now,  was  now 
not  far  away.  Shouting  madly  with  fierce,  mad  ges- 
tures, Bonaparte  was  forming  his  column  of  attack 
again.  His  eyes  shot  grey  flame,  his  bronze  voice  clove 
the  din.  "Soldiers !  Are  you  cowards,  are  you  das- 
tards? Do  your  hearts  beat  the  blood  of  France? 
Then  on !  On !  Victory !  Victory !  Soldiers,  who  fol- 
lows Bonaparte?"  He  waved  his  sword  in  a  grey  circle 
of  light  overhead.  They  answered  him  with  one  deep 
roar.  He  sprang  forward  to  the  bridge  head,  and  on 
through  the  storm  of  death. 

They  thrust  after  him,  on  and  on  and  on,  though 
their  ranks  were  riddled  and  rent,  on  and  on,  all  mad 
and  yelling  with  the  lust  of  fight,  on  over  writhing, 
bleeding  comrades,  on  through  hell  for  the  throat  of 
the  foe.  They  were  over  the  long  bridge,  and  they 
trampled  down  the  Austrian  skirmishers  and  dashed  on, 
falling  into  open  order  as  they  ran,  for  the  battery 
that  had  wrought  all  the  wrack.  The  Austrians  stood 
by  their  guns  to  the  last.  With  the  flame  leaping  out 
in  their  faces,  with  the  close  shot  tearing  ghastly 
wounds  from  them,  they  hurled  themselves  into  the 
emplacements,  and  caught  the  gunners  and  slew.  Then, 
panting  and  reeking  blood  and  sweat,  they  leant  on  the 
burning  guns  a  moment  for  breath.  Massena,  his  lips 


196  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

black,  his  face  pitted  with  powder,  yelled  to  them  in 
vain  to  turn  the  guns  on  the  Austrian  advance.  For 
a  while  they  could  no  more. 

There  was  no  need.  Once  he  had  them  across  the 
river,  once  the  mad  charge  on  the  battery  was  fairly 
launched,  Bonaparte  had  sprung  aside.  He  sprang  to 
the  river-bank,  he  waved  his  arms  in  signal  to  Auge- 
reau.  And  Augereau,  cursing  him,  they  say,  for  tak- 
ing the  cream  of  the  fight,  poured  fresh  brigades 
across  the  bridge.  The  Austrians  saw  the  serried  blue 
ranks  marshalled  against  them.  Their  hearts  were  shat- 
tered already  by  the  sight  of  that  madmen's  charge. 
They  halted  and  changed  ground,  and  manoeuvred 
clumsily.  Before  Massena,  raving  marvellously,  had 
brought  the  captured  guns  to  bear  on  them,  they 
began  to  fall  back.  Murat's  horsemen  were  hurried 
to  the  front  and  launched  upon  them,  and  rode  all 
round  them,  maddening  the  huddled  ranks  as  they  fell 
back  on  Mantua. 

"Oh,  you  are  great,  you  are  great!"  said  a  voice 
at  Bonaparte's  side.  Bonaparte  turned  with  a  start  to 
see  Ettorre.  The  boy's  cheeks  and  his  bright  hair  were 
grim  with  blood.  His  eyes  glared  madly.  "I  was  with 
you!"  he  cried,  and  he  shook  a  broken  sword  in  his 
hand. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  the  child  and  something  of  pas- 
sionate love  lit  his  eyes :  "My  little  hero !"  Bonaparte 
cried,  and  caught  the  child  and  tossed  him  up  on  his 
shoulder.  "Salute !"  he  shouted.  "Salute  the  child  who 
is  god  of  war!" 

Augereau's  battalions  swinging  by  put  shako  on 
bayonet  and  roared  cheers  for  "The  Little  Corporal 
and  his  baby." 


I 

HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  197 

The  child  waved  his  wet,  broken  sword  at  them 
and  screamed  wild  answers.  Bonaparte  lifted  him 
down  and  caught  him  to  his  breast  and  kissed  the 
blood-marked  cheeks,  and  the  child  chattered  to  him 
shrill.  About  them  Bonaparte's  staff  were  gathering 
again,  and  the  stolid  Berthier  and  some  looked  at  the 
child  queerly,  but  some  began  to  play  with  him.  The 
child  struck  back  at  them  with  his  broken  sword 
viciously,  glaring,  and  they  drew  away.  He  stood  by 
Bonaparte,  quivering,  frenzied,  a  ghastly,  monstrous 
vision — childhood  in  the  grip  of  the  blood-lust. 

Bonaparte  laughed  and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
"Come,  Ettorre,"  he  said,  and  turned  back  toward  the 
bridge. 

Ettorre  went,  muttering  to  himself  and  making  his 
sword  whistle. 

They  came  over  the  wounded  and  the  dead,  over 
bodies  rent  asunder,  past  the  shriek  and  the  moan  and 
impotent  writhing  of  that  vast  agony  of  torment. 
Slowly  the  pain  of  it  stung  through  the  child's  mad- 
ness. .  .  .  The  whirl  of  the  sword  was  checked,  and  it 
hung  loose  in  his  hand.  His  dilated  eyes  shrank  again, 
the  wild  light  in  them  died.  He  looked  all  about  him, 
along  that  bridge  of  death,  and  shuddered  and  gripped 
Bonaparte's  hand  more  firmly  and  drew  closer  to  his 
side. 

But  Bonaparte  strode  on  over  dying  and  dead,  his 
head  held  high,  the  fierce  strength  of  his  face  set  stark 
against  the  mellow  evening  light,  his  eyes  cleaving  at 
the  unseen.  His  own  stricken  men  lifted  their  heads 
to  cheer  him  with  the  last  of  their  breath,  and  fell  back 
happy  as  they  saw  his  hand  move  to  the  salute.  Their 
lives  had  won  that. 


198  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Now  Ettorre  was  walking  uneasily,  starting  away 
and  aside  to  shun  the  dead,  now  he  brushed  uneasily  at 
his  stained  brow,  and  his  eyes  spoke  fear.  They  were 
all  but  over  the  bridge  when  there  came  a  hoarse  cry: 
"In  the  name  of  the  Christ,  lift  up  his  head !" 

Ettorre  started  and  checked.  Bonaparte  was  drag- 
ging him  on,  but  "Let  me  go,  let  me  go !"  he  cried,  and 
he  wrenched  himself  away. 

The  kindly  captain  of  the  Austrian  outpost,  the  man 
who  had  let  the  children  pass  and  given  them  their 
chance  to  spy,  lay  stricken  and  helpless,  and  the  blood 
of  another  man's  wound  was  pouring  over  his  face. 
The  corpse  lay  upon  his  chest. 

"Why,  what  have  you  to  do  with  them?"  said  Bona- 
parte coolly,  as  he  bent  to  help.  But  Ettorre  only 
strove  hard. 

The  Austrian  captain,  freed  of  the  weight  and  the 
blood-stream,  looked  up,  with  dull  eyes  encrimsoned,  to 
see  Ettorre  and  Bonaparte.  "You — you  little  viper !" 
he  groaned.  "The  curse  of  Judas  upon  you,"  and  he 
struck  at  Ettorre  with  his  maimed  hand. 

Ettorre  shrank  away.  Bonaparte  caught  his  hand 
and  strode  on.  "So  one  is  thanked,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

But  Ettorre  did  not  answer. 

On  the  farther  shore  Jean  Dortan  was  waiting  with 
Bonaparte's  white  charger.  "Salute,  Captain  Can- 
non," he  cried  with  a  smile,  and  then  with  something 
of  affection  in  his  deep  voice,  "My  Captain  Cannon !" 

Bonaparte  was  smiling  back  at  him.  "We  go  for- 
ward, Jean,"  said  he. 

"You  will  always  go  forward,  I  think,"  said  Jean 
Dortan,  beaming  broadly.  Then  his  eye  fell  on  Ettor- 
re's  plight,  and  he  grew  grave. 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  199 

"This  is  my  young  hero,"  said  Bonaparte.  "Salute 
him,  Jean." 

But  Jean  Dortan  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Bonaparte  mounted,  swung  Ettorre  up  before  him, 
and  spurred  off  to  his  quarters.  .  .  . 

Pentesilea  had  fled  away  home.  There  sat  Ambrogio 
Rossi  all  alone,  looking  wistfully  away  through  the 
trees.  Breathless  and  trembling  she  cast  herself  into 
his  arms  and  clung  to  him. 

He  felt  the  tumult  of  her  heart.  "Dear,  my  dear," 
he  whispered,  stroking  her  hair.  "What  is  it,  then? 
What  is  amiss?" 

"They  are  fighting,"  Pentesilea  panted;  "they  are 
fighting,  and  it  is  my  fault." 

"What !"  cried  Ambrogio,  as  well  he  might. 

Breathless,  quivering,  all  in  disorder,  she  panted  out 
her  tale. 

Ambrogio  was  soon  more  troubled  than  she.  "He — 
he  made  spies  of  you !"  Ambrogio  stammered  with  rage. 

Pentesilea  nodded,  hiding  her  face  from  him. 

Ambrogio's  voice  broke  in  a  groan.  "My  children! 
My  children !"  he  muttered. 

"Ah,  it  is  bad,  it  is  bad,"  Pentesilea  sobbed.  "I  see 
now,  but  I  didn't  know.  And  they  are  killing!" 

"Where  is  Ettorre?"  said  Ambrogio. 

"I— I  left  him.  He  wanted  to  fight.  Oh,  I  never 
saw  Ettorre's  eyes  like  that.  I  was  afraid.  It  wasn't 
our  Ettorre.  He  wanted  to  kill."  Ambrogio  was 
reaching  for  his  sticks.  He  set  Pentesilea  down, 
he  raised  himself.  "Do  not  leave  me,"  Pentesilea 
wailed. 

"I  must  find  Ettorre,"  said  Ambrogio. 

Pentesilea    lingered,    torn    between    fear    and    love. 


200  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Then  she  sped  after  the  cripple,  and  linked  her  hand 
in  his  arm.  "It  is  all  me,  it  is  all  my  fault,"  she  cried, 
"I  wanted  to  be  a  spy.  Ettorre  didn't.  I — I  made 
him  bad." 

"We  must  find  Ettorre,"  said  Ambrogio. 

"I — want "  said  Pentesilea,  and  her  lip  trembled. 

So  the  cripple  and  the  child  went  out  to  do  battle 
with  Bonaparte. 

They  saw  him  from  far,  riding  his  white  charger 
back  to  his  quarters,  and  they  awaited  him  by  the  door. 
Bonaparte  set  Ettorre  on  the  ground,  and  Ambrogio 
paled  as  he  saw  the  blood  on  the  child's  brow  and  hair, 
and  stretched  out  a  nervous  hand  to  him.  But  Ettorre 
looked  at  the  cripple  strangely  and  held  aloof.  Bona- 
parte vaulted  down,  and  Pentesilea  shrank  away  from 
him  behind  Ambrogio.  Ambrogio  still  eyed  Ettorre 
greedily,  and  his  pale  lips  were  moving  in  silence. 
"What,  poet!"  cried  Bonaparte.  "Take  heart!  He 
is  not  hurt.  He  is " 

"Not  hurt!"  Ambrogio  quivered  at  a  sudden  stab 
of  pain.  "Not  hurt!"  he  repeated,  and  gazed  into 
Bonaparte's  eyes,  and  a  queer,  mocking,  mournful 
laugh  came  from  him. 

"My  Ettorre  has  the  soul  of  a  conqueror !  Come  in  ! 
Come  in!"  He  thrust  Ambrogio  and  the  children  into 
the  room  before  him.  "He  has  helped  me  win  such  a 
victory  as  the  world  has  not  seen.  Come,  poet,  you 
shall  write  me  an  ode  on  it." 

"There  is  no  true  poet  will  ever  sing  of  you,"  said 
Ambrogio,  still  intent  upon  the  grey  gleam  of  Bona- 
parte's eyes. 

"What !"  the  great  brow  darkened.  "What  does  that 
mean  ?" 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN  201 

"It  means  that  you  will  never  do  anything  great." 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "Well,  poet,  I  have  won  a  little 
fight  or  two  already." 

"Winning  battles — that  is  not  great!"  Ambrogio 
cried.  "You!  Ah,  I  thought  you  were  the  angel  of 
deliverance  of  Italy — that  you  would  make  us  a  nation, 
and  give  us  the  spirit  of  life.  No!  You'll  never  help 
the  world.  You'll  never  do  anything  that  endures. 
You  are  vile  in  the  heart  of  your  soul,  and  all  your 
deeds  must  be  shot  with  baseness.  Oh,  it  is  no  man  but 
a  fiend  that  defiles  children.  You — you  take  my  chil- 
dren to  work  your  foulest  needs,  you  teach  them  the 
infamy  of  the  men  whom  all  men  scorn.  Oh,  to  teach 
children  shame,  that " 

"Ah,  bah,  this  is  a  fool's  bombast,"  said  Bonaparte 
with  an  easy  laugh.  "You  are  tiresome,  poet.  Away 
with  you.  What,  Ettorre!  Let  cripples  call  you  vil- 
lain if  soldiers  call  you  hero?" 

"Do  you  think  I  would  leave  a  child  of  mine  with 
you?"  cried  Ambrogio.  He  was  flushed  and  trembling. 

"My  poor  poet,  it  is  not  you  leave  him,  it  is  he  who 
leaves  you.  You  have  had  enough  of  a  cripple  for  your 
nurse,  have  you  not,  Ettorre?  You'll  rest  with  me  and 
be  the  army's  hero,  soldier,  master  of  men,  conqueror 
of  the  world?" 

"Ettorre,"  said  the  cripple  gently. 

Ettorre  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  His  face  was 
livid  now  beneath  the  blood-stains;  wide,  wondering, 
frightened  eyes  gazed  at  them.  The  cripple's  ugliness 
was  veiled  in  a  wistful  smile.  Bonaparte's  thin  lips 
were  smiling  too,  but  there  were  furrows  in  the  great 
dome  of  brow,  and  the  grey  gleam  beneath  struck  at 
Ettorre's  will.  .  .  .  Ettorre  moved  from  the  cripple  a 


202  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

little  way,  and  looked  full  at  Bonaparte.  He  trem- 
bled. .  .  . 

"I  want  you,  Ettorre,"  said  the  cripple  gently. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "He  wants  you,  Ettorre !  Will 
you  spend  your  life  a  crutch  for  a  cripple?  Stay  with 
me  and  have  the  soldiers  cheer  you  out  of  the  blood  of 
the  battle  they've  won."  He  gripped  the  child's  eyes 
with  his,  and  striding  forward:  "Away!"  he  cried  to 
Ambrogio.  "We  soldiers  have  no  use  for  cripples," 
and  he  thrust  Ambrogio  to  the  door,  so  that  he  reeled 
and  staggered,  scraping  with  his  sticks,  and  fell  against 
Pentesilea.  Pentesilea  held  him  up,  every  nerve  of  her 
slight  strength  at  strain,  and  there  broke  from  her  a 
harsh,  tearing  sob. 

At  that  Ettorre  woke.  With  some  wild  cry  he  darted 
forward  and  caught  Ambrogio's  arm.  "Come!  Ah, 
come  away!"  His  voice  was  shrill,  he  was  cold  and 
shivering  with  fear.  Pentesilea  turned  to  him  with 
wild,  pitiful  joy,  and  snatched  his  hand  a  moment  .  .  . 
the  two  children  clung  to  the  cripple  and  dragged 
him  on. 

But  Ambrogio  hung  back  and  lingered  in  the  door- 
way, and  turned  to  see  Bonaparte  again.  Bonaparte's 
stark  strength  was  drawn  and  seared  with  the  pain  of 
yearning  and  despair.  .  .  .  Ambrogio  looked  long,  and 
his  eyes  were  wistful.  "God  forgive  you — God  help 
you,"  he  said. 

"Get  you  gone,"  Bonaparte  thundered,  with  a  wild 
sweep  of  his  arm,  and  the  cripple  went  after  the  weep- 
ing children. 

Bonaparte  was  left  alone.  Bonaparte  sat,  his  great 
brow  lowering,  his  lips  curved  into  a  sneer,  his  hands 
clenched.  .  .  .  He  muttered  to  himself  a  little.  .  .  . 


HOW  HE  LOVED  CHILDREN 


Jean  Dortan  came  in  with  a  bustle,  "Salute,  and 
again  salute,  my  general.  Never  was  such  a  victory." 

Bonaparte  looked  up  with  a  sour  smile. 

"Eh,  where  is  the  child?"  cried  Jean  Dortan. 

"The  child  .  .  .  has  gone  home,"  said  Bonaparte. 

"That  is  good,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

Bonaparte  stared  at  him  dully.  "Good?"  he  mut- 
tered. "Who  knows  what  good  is  ?" 


CHAPTER  VH 

HOW    HE    MET    AN    IRISHMAN 

HE  found  a  good  many  people  to  hate  before  all  was 
done,  but  I  suppose  there  was  always  a  place  for 
Giacomo  Connell.  You  shall  hear  his  reasons. 

Now,  it  is  illuminating  to  remember  that  he  had 
always  the  least  amiable  characteristics  of  a  child.  He 
was  peevish  if  things  went  ill  with  him,  he  was  angry 
if  people  were  not  vastly  interested  in  him,  he  was 
despondent  and  alarmed  when  he  did  not  know  what 
would  happen  next.  In  a  happy  state,  beset  by  all 
these  troubles,  you  find  General  Bonaparte  riding  over 
the  marshes  of  the  Adige.  The  grey  twilight  fog  hides 
earth  and  sky.  His  staff  are  somewhere  about  him, 
but  each  man  of  them  is  wholly  concerned  to  keep  his 
own  horse  out  of  the  water-cuts.  Somewhere  away  on 
the  right  is  the  broken  rumble  of  a  squadron.  They 
had  been  making  a  reconnaissance  against  the  Aus- 
trians  at  Caldiero  when  the  fog  and  the  night  surprised 
them.  Now,  no  one  knows  anything — where  the  Austri- 
ans  are,  or  where  themselves  are,  or  where  they  will 
be  next.  The  fog  blackens  as  the  last  of  the  twilight 
dies.  The  sounds  of  the  march  are  duller  and  every 
moment  more  and  more  broken.  Each  man  knows  that 
the  darkness  is  scattering  them,  and  tries  vainly  to 
keep  touch.  For  the  water-channels  are  deep  and  eccen- 
tric, and  drive  them  all  ways.  Horses  and  men,  every 
one  is  tired,  for  every  one  has  been  worked  to  the  last 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          205 

of  his  strength  in  these  desperate  days  about  Arcola. 
Every  one  has  his  temper  raw,  for  things  have  steadily 
gone  amiss,  and  the  angriest  temper  of  all  is  Bona- 
parte's. 

Each  man  prisoned  in  the  solitude  of  the  fog  was 
taking  care  for  himself,  finding  the  best  way  he  could, 
save  one  who  rode  upon  Bonaparte's  quarter,  meeting 
better  or  worse  equably  so  he  had  Bonaparte  close. 
Bonaparte  was  muttering  to  himself  and  fidgeting  in 
the  saddle  with  loose  rein.  There  was  the  natural 
result.  His  horse  stumbled  on  the  brink  of  a  water-cut, 
went  down  on  its  knees  and  flung  him  over  its  head. 
A  curse  and  a  splash  were  not  far  heard,  but  his  com- 
panion Jean  Dortan  was  down  swiftly  for  a  heavy  man 
and  groping  after  him.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before 
Bonaparte's  sodden  collar  was  gripped  and  he  was 
hauled  out  shivering.  He  proceeded  to  swear  at  his 
horse  and  beat  it  violently  about  the  head. 

"After  all,"  said  Jean  Dortan  philosophically,  "if 
you  had  stayed  with  him  you  would  not  have  got 
wet." 

Bonaparte  gave  out  an  oath  or  two  more,  but  he 
spared  the  horse  and  hauled  himself  into  the  saddle, 
and  they  went  on  following  the  stream,  since  they  could 
not  cross  it  there.  ...  It  took  them  a  twisting,  con- 
fusing path.  The  sounds  of  the  march  came  to  them 
from  every  side.  And  all  about  them  was  heavy,  clog- 
ging darkness.  .  .  .  More  than  once  Jean  Dortan 
shouted.  Faintly  sometimes  a  shout  answered,  but  the 
fog  mantle  choked  the  sound,  and  no  one  came  near 
them,  and  they  came  upon  no  one.  So  on,  aloof,  alone, 
while  the  chill  bit  into  them,  and  the  wet  fog  clung  like 
an  opalescent  shroud.  .  .  .  Till  Jean  Dortan  checked 


206  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 


sharply:  "If  you  know  where  you  are  going,  my  cap- 
tain," he  cried,  "let  us  go  there.  But  I'll  swear  I  do 
not." 

Bonaparte  (his  teeth  were  chattering)  pointed 
through  the  gloom  to  a  faint  yellowish  glow. 

"And  what  will  that  be?"  said  Jean  Dortan  dubi- 
ously. 

"Watchfires,  fool,"  growled  Bonaparte,  and  went  on. 

"The  watchfires  of  Will-o'-the-wisp,"  quoth  Jean 
Dortan,  but  he  followed. 

They  came  nearer  and  the  glow  brightened,  and  out 
of  it  came  a  cheery  song : 

Nos  vagabiwduli, 
Laeti  jucunduli, 
Tara  tantara  teino. 

"Stop  you  here,"  muttered  Jean  Dortan  with  his 
hand  on  Bonaparte's  rein,  "that  may  be  German,"  and 
he  went  on  alone  to  hail  with  a  thundering  "Qui  vive?" 

"A  friend  to  a  friend,  and  the  devil  to  a  foe,"  the 
cheery  voice  of  the  singer  answered  in  French. 

"French?"  Jean  Dortan  questioned  sceptically,  but 
he  approached. 

"Citizen  of  the  world — till  I  am  a  citizen  of  heaven." 

"The  devil  will  never  get  there,"  said  Jean  Dortan, 
who  was  a  person  of  literal  mind. 

"I'll  be  ready  to  argue  that  with  you,"  said  the 
singer,  who  now,  as  Jean  Dortan  came  close,  appeared 
sprawling  comfortably  on  straw  by  his  fireside,  a  lean 
fellow  in  fantastic  grey  clothes,  with  a  face  like  a  ruddy 
moon. 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          207 

"Do  you  know  where  we  are?"  Jean  Dortan  inquired. 

"If  I  did  I  would  not  be  there,"  said  the  man. 

"I  want  the  French  army,"  Jean  Dortan  explained. 

"Your  taste  is  unique,"  said  the  man. 

"Can  you  help  me  to  it?" 

"I  could  more  easily  help  you  to  hell,  and  I  dare 
say  you  would  not  know  the  difference.  Look  you,  my 
friend,  you  are  lost.  I  also  am  lost.  What  more  can 
a  man  want?" 

Jean  Dortan  gazed  down  at  him  in  earnest  scrutiny. 
He  appeared  most  comfortable  with  his  fire  and  his 
straw,  and  a  contemplative  ass  munching  behind  gave 
him  something  of  a  domestic  air ;  but  Jean  Dortan  was 
doubtful  whether  he  could  trust  to  a  person  so  bizarre 
his  invaluable  General  Bonaparte.  General  Bonaparte, 
who  was  cold,  decided  for  himself.  He  spurred  up  into 
the  firelight:  "May  a  wet  man  claim  an  hour  of  your 
fire?"  he  cried. 

"Give  what  you  have,  ask  what  you  need.  That  is 
vagabonds'  law,"  said  the  man,  and  made  room  for 
him  by  the  fire.  "My  ass,  being  an  ass,  will  not  want 
to  share  his  oats,  but  you're  free  of  the  rest." 

Bonaparte  came  heavily  to  the  ground  and  gave  up 
his  horse  to  Jean  Dortan,  and,  shivering,  crouched  close 
to  the  fire.  The  man  passed  him  a  sausage  and  a  flask. 
.  .  .  "You  are  well  found,  sir,"  said  Bonaparte,  his 
blood  something  warmed. 

"If  all  asses  would  carry  food  and  drink  and  fire  like 
my  ass,  they  would  not  need  bray  so  much,"  said  the 
man. 

"Meaning  us  asses?"  said  the  literal  Jean  Dortan, 
who,  having  cared  for  the  horses,  was  now  standing 
over  him. 


208  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

The  round,  red  face  was  turned  to  him  a  jolly  smile. 
"Asses,  good  sir  ?  Oh,  you  are  more,  you  are  soldiers." 

"And  what  are  you?"  snapped  Bonaparte. 

"I  am  the  perfect  vagabond,  General  Bonaparte." 

"You  know  me?" 

"Does  any  man  but  General  Bonaparte  look  so 
unhappy  ?" 

Bonaparte  stared  at  him  keenly.  "What  right  have 
you  to  be  happy,  master  vagabond?" 

"No  man  has  the  right  to  be  anything  else." 

"When  you  have  a  chill  in  your  marrow,"  said  Jean 
Dortan,  the  practical  man,  "and  nothing  at  all  in  your 
belly " 

"I  am  independent  of  marrow  and  belly,"  and  the 
perfect  vagabond,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  brushed 
both  away.  "Well.  You  may  eat,  you  may  drink. 
There  are  yet  two  sausages  and  a  pottle  more.  Shall 
I  sing  you  a  song  or  discourse  of  greatness  and  the 
causes  of  things?" 

"In  the  name  of  the  devil  who  are  you,  and  of  what 
country  ?"  cried  Bonaparte. 

"My  name  is  Giacomo  Connell.  My  mother,  poor 
soul,  was  a  Roman.  My  father  was  wise  enough  to  be 
an  Irishman.  So  much  for  my  blood,  which  unites  hap- 
pily the  practical  and  the  speculative  fluids.  I  am  of 
no  country,  but  I  know  them  all  from  Belgrade  to 
Inishmore.  I  have  never  a  home  nor  wife  nor  child,  and 
thank  God  for  all.  There  is  no  man,  I  believe  on  my 
soul,  has  such  strength  in  him  as  I,  and  I  rest  content 
to  be  nothing  to  every  man  and  everything  to  myself. 
That  being  bliss." 

"So  a  pig  might  say  if  it  spoke,"  Bonaparte  sneered. 

"Mark  your  intellect's  confusion — no.    For  a  pig  is 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          209 

destined  to  be  something  for  its  enemies,  namely  bacon. 
I,  who  do  no  harm  alive  and  should  do  no  good  dead, 
am  free  of  all  swineherds,  whether  they  call  themselves 
emperors  or  peasants.  God  made  Giacomo  Connell 
for  His  own  glory  and  the  said  Giacomo's  pleasure. 
Piously  I  strive  to  fulfil  His  purpose.  Now  why  in 
God's  name  did  God  make  Napoleon  Bonaparte?" 

Bonaparte  looked  at  him  with  contempt.  "For  work, 
sirrah,"  he  snapped. 

"Oh,  I  cry  you  pardon.  I  know  one  way  to  glorify 
God — it  is  to  be  happy.  When  I  am  glad  in  the  way- 
ward light  of  a  moon  rainbow  across  the  snow — when 
I  see  the  spring  dawn  break  pale  gold  on  the  breath 
of  the  limes — when  the  sea  is  still  as  the  floor  of  heaven, 
purple  and  blue  and  emerald  under  the  black  cliffs 
of  Inishmore — then  I  know  myself  of  one  mind  with 
God,  because  the  splendours  of  His  delight  are  mine. 
What  are  your  joys,  Napoleon  Bonaparte?" 

"I  do  not  gape  at  the  world,  sirrah,  I  make  it  anew." 

"I  suppose  you  know  no  better,"  said  Giacomo  Con- 
nell with  a  sigh.  "What  is  your  quarrel  with  the  world 
as  it  is?  My  friend,  to  yourself  no  doubt  you  look  a 
hero.  To  the  sane  you  look  like  a  weevil.  You  must 
needs  be  boring  and  boring  into  good,  wholesome  stuff 
till  you  spoil  it.  Not  even  yourself  gets  any  good  of 
it.  Whoever  saw  a  weevil  look  gay?" 

Bonaparte  stood  up.  "For  your  fire  and  your  food 
I  thank  you,  but  your  tongue  pays  for  all." 

"Ah,  you'll  have  lost  your  taste  for  homely  joys. 
Now  I'm  as  witty  as  a  spring  afternoon.  Well,  sit 
down,  Bonaparte.  You'll  not  get  anywhere  but  beside 
yourself  while  the  air  is  like  wet  wool.  And  if  you've 
no  taste  for  reason,  I'll  try  you  with  rhyme." 


210  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

He  reached  for  his  guitar  and  began  to  sing  in  a 
humorous  wail : 

Rusticus  dum  nimium 
Gravat  suum  asinum 
Vidit  semimortuum, 

La  sol  fa 
Vidit  semimortuum 

La  sol  fa  mi  re  ut. 

Bonaparte,  after  staring  through  the  fog  awhile, 
dropped  down  again  with  a  mutter  of  disgust.  Jean 
Dortan  had  never  moved.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  this 
song  of  the  ass's  last  will 'and  testament,  and  Giacomo 
Connell  chanted  it  well  and  faithfully.  It  might  have 
been  better  liked  if  any  one  but  himself  had  understood 
it.  Bonaparte,  who  was  steaming  close  against  the  fire, 
broke  it  with  inarticulate  sounds  of  impatience,  Jean 
Dortan  with  snores. 

The  white  wood  ash  fluttered  about  the  fire,  flames 
swayed  against  Jean  Dortan's  unconscious  feet.  The 
air  was  moving.  Whorls  of  fog  came  grey  into  the 
firelight,  and  rolled  on  into  black  glimmering  dark. 
Sharper  breath  came  to  the  nostrils.  Clean  shadows 
fell  beyond  the  fire.  Bonaparte  started  up  with  a  cry, 
and  stirred  Jean  Dortan  with  his  foot. 

Jean  Dortan  arose  grunting,  looked  at  Bonaparte, 
looked  at  the  dark.  "Which  way?"  he  inquired. 

"All  roads  lead  to  heaven,"  said  Giacomo  Connell, 
"but  perhaps  you  do  not  want  to  go  there." 

Bonaparte  was  searching  vainly  for  stars  in  a  sky 
canopied  with  inky  cloud.  He  turned  at  last  to  Gia- 
como: "Which  way  lies  Ronco?" 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN 


"Southward  by  three  east.  And  where  is  southward? 
There  —  "  he  pointed  up  wind. 

Jean  Dortan  went  off  for  the  horses.  Bonaparte 
strode  up  and  down  beating  his  whip  on  his  boot,  and 
Giacomo  Connell  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I  wonder," 
said  Giacomo.  Bonaparte  checked  to  look  at  him,  but 
as  Giacomo  was  some  time  in  wondering  anything 
articulate,  resumed  his  fretful  march.  "I  wonder  if 
you  ever  let  your  mind  stay  still  and  think  of  itself." 
Bonaparte  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  contemptuous 
astonishment.  "I  am  purely  sorry  for  you,"  Giacomo 
assured  him. 

Jean  Dortan  was  coming  with  the  horses  saddled. 
But  there  was  the  sound  of  more  horses  than  his  on 
the  air.  Bonaparte  and  Jean  Dortan  listened  anxious- 
ly, ears  to  the  wind.  "It  comes  across  wind,"  said 
Giacomo  carelessly.  "From  eastward." 

"From  eastward?"  Bonaparte  repeated.  "Austri- 
ans  !"  and  he  hurried  to  his  horse.  "The  Austrians 
at  Zevio  !" 

"Your  soul  is  only  little,  after  all,"  Giacomo  re- 
marked. "What  harm  will  they  do  you  ?  Since  you  are 
only  a  murderer  by  wholesale  they  will  not  kill  you  if 
they  take  you.  And  the  greatest  opportunity  of  great- 
ness is  in  prison.  Pause  and  consider.  Show  the  might 
of  your  soul  by  glorifying  God  in  a  dungeon.  Then 
I  will  believe  in  you."  But  Bonaparte  was  already  in 
the  saddle  and  turning  westward.  "Unless  you  can 
fly,"  said  Giacomo  placidly,  "I  think  you  will  not  get 
across  the  marsh  that  way.  Moreover,  as  I  judge  by 
the  nearing  sound,  the  Austrians  have  seen  our  fire, 
and  will  be  upon  you  in  three  minutes."  Jean  Dortan, 
who  had  been  tightening  his  girths,  jumped  at  the  fire, 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 


and  began  to  trample  on  it  ;  but  Giacomo  rose  up,  and 
thrust  him  away.  "Fool,  O  fool!  Leave  the  fire  and 
remove  yourself.  Follow:  who  follows  Giacomo?"  He 
vaulted  on  his  bare-backed  ass  and  struck  away  south. 

Bonaparte,  who  had  come  in  ten  yards  upon  a  stream 
impassable,  halted  one  moment  irresolute,  then  spurred 
after  him.  And  the  faithful  Jean  Dortan  followed. 
There  was,  in  fact,  no  choice.  They  knew  no  way  by 
which  it  was  safe  to  make  so  much  as  a  trot.  Giacomo 
at  least  was  achieving  that.  .  .  .  After  the  lean  grey 
shape  they  went,  and  he  looked  in  the  gloom  like  a 
ghost  on  the  ghost  of  an  ass.  The  beast  bore  him  well, 
and  Giacomo  never  faltered,  twisting  and  turning 
handily  between  deep  channels  and  patches  of  oozing, 
watery  land,  yet  making  steadily  southward.  Through 
clear  darkness  they  went  with  a  live  wind  about  them 
.  .  .  and  the  wind  was  fraught  with  sound  ...  all  the 
marsh  moved  with  white  horsemen.  .  .  .  Often  their 
winding  way  brought  them  near  enough  to  hear  gruff 
German  oaths  ;  but  they  had  gone  a  mile  or  two  before, 
in  the  medley  of  movement  and  sound,  they  were  marked 
down. 

"Who  goes?"  It  was  a  Hungarian  talking  German. 
"On  the  track  to  Ronco,  who  goes?" 

"Why,  then,  we'll  be  off  it,"  Giacomo  muttered,  and 
turned  his  ass  westward  and  splashed  through  sodden 
turf.  But  they  had  been  seen.  A  carbine  rattled  away 
down  wind.  Yelling,  a  troop  thudded  after  them.  Gia- 
como's  ass  was  no  beast  for  a  gallop. 

Bonaparte  ranged  up  alongside  him  :  "On,  man,  on, 
in  the  name  of  God,  get  on  !"  he  muttered.  Giacomo 
laughed.  "Which  road  is  it,  then?"  cried  Bonaparte, 
desperate. 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN 

"Who  gets  to  the  end  will  know,"  said  Giacomo 
calmly,  and  began  to  sing  his  song: 

Rusticus  dum  nimium 
Gravat  suum  asinum 
Vidit  semimortuum 
La  sol  fa. 

The  clash  and  boom  of  the  Magyar  horsemen  were 
closer  each  moment.  Challenge  and  threat  roared  in 
their  ears.  But  the  amiable  Giacomo  did  not  urge  his 
ass  faster  the  least,  and  to  Bonaparte's  stream  of 
hoarse  oaths  he  replied  only  with  the  unconsoling 
song: 

Si  te  scissem  asine 
Morlturum  propere 
Involvissem  sindone 
La  sol  fa. 

Now  the  Magyars  were  upon  them.  They  could  hear 
the  scrape  and  the  whistle  of  drawn  swords.  Jean 
Dortan  had  fallen  behind.  Jean  Dortan,  though  more 
ashamed  of  the  emotion,  was  almost  as  much  concerned 
for  his  General  as  Bonaparte  himself.  Jean  Dortan 
reined  suddenly  round  and  alone  met  the  rush  of  the 
Magyars.  He  got  one  man  on  his  swordpoint  before 
they  crashed  on  him  body  to  body.  Then  he  was  hurled 
from  the  saddle,  then  his  horse  was  dashed  down,  and 
down  upon  him  went  the  first  of  the  Austrians  too,  and 
there  was  wild  chaos  of  fallen,  plunging  chargers. 
Pulling  wide,  the  troopers  behind  won  round  and  thun- 
dered on  after  Bonaparte.  Bonaparte,  wild  with  panic 
— after  all,  it  would  have  been  a  grey  ending  to  his 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 


strength  if  the  Austrians  had  taken  him  there  —  Bona- 
parte was  thrusting  on  before  Giacomo  Connell,  not 
caring  whither  he  fled,  so  he  had  a  chance  to  flee. 

"If  you  go  your  own  way  you  go  to  the  devil,"  cried 
Giacomo.  "Follow,  follow  the  ass  !"  He  turned  away 
to  the  south  of  west,  and  Bonaparte,  with  a  wild  glance 
back  at  the  pursuit,  wrenched  his  horse  round  to  follow. 

Giacomo  was  leaning  forward  over  his  ass's  nose. 
"Close,  keep  straight  with  his  tail,"  he  cried  back  to 
Bonaparte,  and  checked  his  ass,  and  checked  again. 

The  Magyars  thundered  on,  whooping  to  their  prey, 
a  dozen  abreast,  till  on  a  sudden  their  horses  were 
caught  deep  as  their  hocks  and  a  dozen  went  out  of  the 
saddle  and  came  again  with  an  ugly  sound  to  the  open 
bosom  of  the  marsh.  Giacomo  was  finding  a  bare 
bridle-track  over  the  most  perilous  ground,  a  causeway 
Etruscan  builders  had  made  seventy  generations  before. 
Without  one  wavering  glance  behind  Giacomo  held  on, 
eye  and  ear  and  nose  intent  upon  the  tufts  of  rushes 
and  marsh  mint  and  mallow  and  the  tiny  patches  of 
red  marl.  Bonaparte  turning  in  his  saddle  saw  the 
foremost  of  the  Magyars  engulfed,  saw  their  fellows 
check  desperately  and  open  out  and  try  for  firm  ground 
on  either  side.  But  firm  ground  there  was  only  upon 
that  tiny  broken  causeway,  and  the  Magyars  could  not 
find  it.  More  than  once  Bonaparte's  charger,  less 
sure-footed  than  the  ass,  slipped  a  leg  down  into  the 
morass,  and  there  was  a  check  and  a  struggle;  but 
always,  in  spite  of  his  rider's  horrible  horsemanship, 
the  horse  won  the  causeway  again,  and  soon  they  were 
far  away  from  danger.  Giacomo  Connell  led  on  with- 
out a  word  till  they  struck  the  broad  highroad  from 
Verona  to  Legnano. 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          215 

Then  he  reined  round  and  faced  Bonaparte.  Bona- 
parte saluted  him:  "Sir,  you  have  done  me  a  service." 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  friend?"  said  Gia- 
como  Connell. 

"My  good  Jean !"  said  Bonaparte  with  a  laugh  of 
some  sadness.  "He  turned  back  to  hold  them  in  check. 
He  saved  us." 

"I  thought  he  was  such  a  fool,"  said  Giacomo  Con- 
nell. "Well?" 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "which  is  the 
road  to  Ronco?" 

"It  is  not  the  way  to  your  friend,"  said  Giacomo 
Connell. 

Bonaparte  shrugged.  "I  have  no  right  to  think  of 
my  friend — I  must  think  of  my  army,  of  France." 

Giacomo  laughed.  "You  never  disappoint  me,"  said 
he.  "Go  your  ways.  Go  to  Ronco.  Go  to  the  devil," 
and  he  pointed  Bonaparte  on. 

Bonaparte  went  off  at  a  gallop.  He  had  some 
excuse.  If  the  Austrians  were  in  force  about  Zevio, 
the  Austrians  were  moving  on  Mantua,  the  Austrians 
were  down  from  the  hills.  The  moment  to  strike  had 
come.  As  for  Jean  Dortan — why,  Jean  Dortan  had 
done  his  duty  and  was  probably  dead.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  think  any  more  about  Jean  Dortan. 

The  French  army  was  in  bivouac  on  the  drier  ground 
and  the  dykes  about  Ronco.  Soon  Bonaparte  met  a 
patrol  searching  for  him,  and  riding  in  with  them  he 
found  Berthier  grunting  profusely  with  agitation. 
Bonaparte  slapped  his  shoulder,  and  with  no  more 
greeting  bade  him  sit  down  by  the  firelight  and  take 
orders  for  the  morrow.  They  were  flung  in  curt  sen- 
tences, they  took  few  minutes,  but  they  made  Berthier 


216  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

bite  his  nails  and  blink  as  he  strode  off.  Bonaparte 
had  his  sodden  boots  hauled  off,  rolled  himself  in  a 
dry  cloak,  and  lay  down  by  the  fire  with  holsters  for  a 
pillow,  and  was  asleep  at  once.  There  were  hours  of 
the  long  November  night  still  to  come. 

Before  dawn  he  was  afoot  again,  and  away  to  the 
outposts  listening  for  any  sound  from  north  or  east. 
All  was  still,  still  in  the  deep  cold  sleep  of  the  last  hours 
of  night.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  dawn  twilight  came.  Black 
earth  and  sky  were  pallid  grey,  and  the  watchfires  lost 
their  glow.  Men  moved,  marshalled  shadows,  along  the 
dykes.  Before  the  late  sun  had  risen  Massena  was 
marching  away  north  to  fall  on  the  Austrian  flank. 

All  night  long  Giacomo  Connell  had  been  busy. 
When  Bonaparte  left  him  with  his  breathless  ass,  he 
turned  and  jogged  leisurely  along  the  highroad,  past 
the  chapel  of  San  Carlo,  till  he  had  the  marsh  on  the 
east  of  him.  Then  he  tied  his  ass  with  a  long  halter 
to  a  cypress,  and  leaving  that  placid  beast,  who  at 
once  began  to  browse,  he  ventured  forward  to  the  Aus- 
trians  afoot.  Their  white  horsemen  were  flung  wide. 
To  the  rear  away  by  Zevio  and  far  and  far  eastward 
spread  a  broad  band  of  white.  Giacomo  went  fearless, 
careless,  chanting  a  doleful  ditty. 

Soon  one  of  the  swarm  of  horsemen  bade  him  stand, 
and  he  stood  politely  still.  "Have  you  found  my  ass  ?" 
he  asked  in  German. 

The  question  did  not  propitiate.  He  was  reproved 
profanely,  and  bidden  account  for  himself. 

He  was  courageous.  "My  name  is  Giacomo  Con- 
nell," said  he,  "and  I  have  lost  my  ass.  These  abhor- 
rent Frenchmen,  who,  having  Bonaparte,  surely  need 
no  ass  more,  have  stolen  mine.  Therefore  stay  the  first 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN 


ass  you  meet,  without  counting  his  legs,  and  commit 
him  to  me."  The  mention  of  Frenchmen  and  an  ass 
made  him  a  person  of  importance. 

"Who  are  you  with  so  much  to  say  ?"  cried  an  officer 
as  the  troopers  closed  round  him. 

"I  am  a  pedlar  of  joy." 

"You'll  talk  sense  if  you're  wise." 

"Sense  !"  cried  Giacomo.  "I'm  beside  myself  because 
I  can't  be  beside  my  ass." 

"By  the  Virgin,  he's  mad  !"  said  some  pious  soul. 

But  one  less  devout  took  him  by  the  collar:  "Hark 
to  me  now,  and  have  done  with  folly." 

"Faith,  it's  plainly  impossible,"  Giacomo  protested. 

His  captor  shook  him:  "Where  were  you  when  you 
saw  these  French?" 

"I  was  here,  or  it  may  be  there,"  said  Giacomo  with 
an  air  of  pedantic  accuracy.  "That  is  to  say  there," 
he  pointed  vaguely  through  the  dark,  "peaceably 
passing  the  night  by  a  fire  of  my  own.  You  must  know 
I'm  on  my  way  to  Innsbruck  (where  my  sister's  husband 
has  a  cousin),  and  I've  a  full  load  of  joy  with  me. 
Well,  I  was  lost  in  the  fog,  so  I  made  a  fire,  and  my 
ass  and  I  we  set  up  our  rest  for  the  night.  Then  came 
these  devils  talking  French,  as  of  course  the  devil  would. 
Two  of  them  had  horses,  one  had  not.  They  asked 
where  they  were,  and  I  told  them  they  were  lost  and 
they  stole  my  ass.  So  if  they  are  not  lost  in  this  world 
they  will  be  in  the  next.  A  fine  ass  he  was.  I  called 
him  Plato.  I  think  no  gentleman  here  knows  so  fine 
an  ass." 

"Which  way  did  they  go?"  the  Austrian  roared. 

"Oh,  did  you  want  to  know  that?  There  —  there." 
Giacomo  pointed  truthfully  toward  Ronco.  "I  ran  as 


218  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

far  as  I  could,  but  you  know  how  fast  an  ass  runs. 
After  all  an  ass  is  wiser  than  a  man,  for  he  does  not 
mind  being  an  ass." 

His  philosophy  was  not  heeded.  The  Austrian 
officers  were  all  speaking  at  once. 

"It  is  the  same.  It  is  they  Quasdonowich's  hus- 
sars were  chasing.  They  had  an  ass.  What  were  they 
like,  fellow?  what  were  they  like?" 

"There  was  one,"  said  Giacomo,  very  much  at  his 
leisure,  "a  little  man  with  a  big  brain-pan.  Little  of 
soul  but  with  a  great  brain:  such,  gentlemen,  I  take 
to  be  the  nature  of  the  devil.  A  sharp  face,  a  sallow 
face,  and  nothing  of  a  neck." 

"It  is  he !  It  is  the  Bonaparte !"  the  Austrians  cried. 
"And  he  fled  to  Ronco?" 

"Taking,  nefariously,  my  ass,"  said  Giacomo. 

"Oh,  condemn  your  ass !"  cried  the  man  who  held  him, 
and  flung  him  away.  Gallopers  were  sped  off  on  either 
flank  with  the  news,  and  they  moved  on  toward  the 
highroad. 

Giacomo  was  left  to  himself.  "There  is  so  little  merit 
in  being  able  to  deceive  mankind,"  he  murmured  plaint- 
ively. "That  makes  one  love  them.  I  wonder  if  there 
is  much  merit  in  being  able  to  help  them?"  Pondering 
on  the  rewards  of  merit  in  this  world  and  the  next 
(which  was  his  uncommon  habit)  Giacomo  went  on  over 
the  marsh  to  look  for  Jean  Dortan. 

He  was  well  through  the  screen  of  horsemen  now,  and 
the  sedate  mass  of  the  main  army  was  far  enough  out 
of  his  track.  He  held  his  way  unfaltering  as  a  man 
used  to  walk  by  night.  But  it  was  some  while  before, 
winding  among  the  channels,  he  came  upon  the  ruin  of 
Jean  Dortan's  sacrifice.  The  Magyar  horsemen,  before 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          219 

they  followed  the  advance,  had  done  what  they  could 
for  their  comrades.  Broken-limbed  horses  had  been  put 
beyond  pain.  Some  of  the  wounded  men  had  been  borne 
away,  some  were  rudely  bandaged  and  propped  up 
against  the  dead  horses.  They  lay  dazed  and  numb 
with  the  chill  of  the  marsh.  Giacomo  came  peering 
close  into  the  wreck.  He  found  Jean  Dortan  with  his 
head  in  a  stiff  pool  of  blood,  his  legs  pinned  beneath  a 
horse,  lifeless.  Giacomo  put  his  hand  to  the  heart  and 
the  pulse  in  the  neck,  his  cheek  to  the  bloody  lips  .  .  . 
he  rose  with  a  sigh  of  content.  Then  he  sweated  vastly 
dragging  at  the  horse,  till  he  had  Jean  Dortan  free 
and  resting  comfortably  against  it.  But  Jean's  head 
lolled  on  his  shoulder  and  his  limbs  had  many  joints. 
Giacomo  stripped  the  cloak  from  the  largest  of  the 
Magyar  dead  and  over  Jean  Dortan's  blue  coat  put  the 
Austrian  white.  Then  he  hoisted  the  big,  limp,  lifeless 
form  on  his  back  and  made  off.  .  .  .  He  was  a  mon- 
strous figure  with  his  burden,  and  some  roving  horse- 
men spurred  at  him,  but  gave  him  God-speed  when  they 
heard  he  was  taking  a  comrade  to  a  leech  and  a  church. 
His  brow  was  dropping  sweat  upon  his  breast  when  he 
came  to  the  tiny  chapel  of  San  Carlo  of  the  Marsh  and 
let  fly  a  thundering  kick  at  the  door.  From  the 
unglazed  window  of  the  tiny  cell  beside  a  shorn  head 
popped  out.  "My  son,  my  son,"  the  fat  voice  was 
anguished,  "do  no  sacrilege !" 

"I'll  swear  it's  sacrilege  to  the  image  of  God  to  keep 
a  wounded  man  outside  your  door." 

"Oh,  alack!  alack!"  The  monk  flung  wide  the  door 
of  his  cell.  "Mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa.  But  how 
could  I  tell  a  wounded  man  would  kick  so?  Come  in, 
my  son;  come  in,  and  give  the  glory  to  God." 


220  CFHE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Giacomo  stalked  in  and  let  down  his  burden  with  a 
grunt  on  the  priest's  bed  and  wiped  the  stream  off  his 
brow.  Jean  Dortan  lay  as  he  was  laid. 

"Ah,  St.  Mary  Magdalen,"  cried  the  priest,  bending 
over  him.  "Ah,  Mary  Mother,  of  your  grace  for  all 
poor  souls!" 

"Amen  for  nyself,"  said  Giacomo.  "He — well,  he'll 
not  do  ill  in  the  next  world,  but  we'll  try  to  keep  him 
in  this." 

"Ah,  surely,  surely,"  the  fat  friar  was  bustling  with 
linen  and  water,  and  stirring  the  embers  of  his  fire. 
"It  were  a  sin  else." 

"There  are  poor  souls  enough  have  seen  their  last 
sunset,"  said  Giacomo,  beginning  to  peel  the  clothes  off 
Jean  Dortan,  "and  you'll  have  your  chapel  full  of  poor 
bodies  before  another." 

"Say  you  so?  Ah,  miseri,  miserrimi!  God  soften 
the  hearts  of  men!" 

"And  stay  the  devil  softening  their  brains,"  said 
Giacomo ;  and  with  that  the  two  fell  to  work  on  Jean 
Dortan,  and  washed  his  wounds  and  bound  them  with 
linen  and  sweet  oil,  and  poured  wine  and  milk  into  him. 
The  dawn  was  breaking  when  first  he  groaned.  Gia- 
como went  out  to  chop  wood  for  splints,  and  as  he 
worked  in  the  silvery  light  heard  a  rattle  of  musketry 
away  in  the  east.  Bonaparte's  day  had  begun.  Pen- 
sive, Giacomo  went  back,  and  together — he  had  some 
practice  and  the  priest  some  theory — they  set  Jean 
Dortan's  legs.  The  pain  of  that  woke  him,  and  he 
opened  dull  eyes  upon  them  and  muttered,  "My  cap- 
tain, my  captain."  There  was  something  of  mockery 
in  Giacomo's  smile. 

So    they    fed   Jean    Dortan    again,    and   he    sighed 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN 


heavily  and  slept.  Then  they  paused  to  feed  them- 
selves. While  they  ate  the  cannon  roared  from  far. 
Giacomo  arose.  The  fat  priest  looked  at  him  timidly. 
"I  go  for  more  asses,"  said  Giacomo. 

When  he  was  gone  and  the  din  of  the  battle  grew 
heavy,  the  priest  knelt  and  prayed  for  all  life. 

While  the  sky  blanched  from  dark  grey  to  pearl 
white,  Massena's  division  had  sped  away  north.  An 
hour  later  Augereau  moved  along  the  causeway  through 
the  marsh  to  Arcola.  Massena's  scouts  clashed  on  the 
flank  of  the  Austrian  army,  and  to  a  patter  of  mus- 
ketry the  sun  rose  dull  yellow  out  of  the  yellow  plain. 
Massena  thrust  fiercely  forward,  hurled  a  brigade  on 
the  Austrian  flank,  and  brought  the  whole  army  to  a 
halt.  At  the  same  moment  Augereau  came  down  upon 
their  rear. 

It  was  well  done,  yet  not  well  enough.  Bonaparte 
had  reckoned  that  the  Austrians  would  be  clear  of  the 
village  of  Arcola  before  Augereau  was  up  with  them. 
For  once  that  lazy  army  had  profit  of  its  laziness.  A 
brigade  of  Croats  lingered  stupidly  in  their  quarters, 
and  in  their  quarters  Augereau  caught  them.  It  was 
the  worse  for  him.  The  Croats,  who  would  not  hurry 
for  their  own  general,  would  not  hurry  for  the  French. 
They  let  Augereau's  skirmishers  come  into  the  village, 
and  slew  them  there  at  their  leisure.  Augereau  launched 
a  regiment  in  column  along  the  causeway,  but  from 
their  mellow  brick  cottages  the  Croats  riddled  the 
French  ranks  and  tore  them  asunder.  Again  and  still 
again  Augereau  brought  columns  to  the  attack,  but  in 
the  steady  fire  from  the  village  the  fiercest  charge 
melted  away.  Augereau  himself  sprang  from  his  horse 
and  ran  forward,  rallying  his  men  with  cries  and  blows, 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

and  snatched  the  standard  of  his  best  regiment  and 
bade  them  follow  him  and  the  glory  of  France.  Madly 
they  surged  forward,  and  on  and  on.  But  the  Croats, 
not  mad  at  all,  let  them  come  to  a  hundred  yards  and 
smote  them  again  with  a  tempest  of  lead  and  beat 
them  back  in  disorder,  while  Augereau  raved  in  vain. 

Bonaparte's  plan  was  shattered:  the  surprise  had 
failed.  Alvintzy  the  Austrian  had  time  to  get  his  army 
in  hand  and  form  again.  His  vanguard  turned  and 
held  Massena  in  check  while  he  brought  back  new 
brigades  to  support  his  stubborn  Croats  in  Arcola. 

Pallid,  with  eyes  like  lance-points  and  his  great  brow 
drawn,  Bonaparte  rode  up  to  Augereau's  broken  bat- 
talions. Augereau  was  afoot  still  working  like  a  ser- 
geant to  beat  them  into  some  order,  and  his  officers 
were  as  mad  as  he. 

"Soldiers !"  Bonaparte's  voice  rang.  "Soldiers  of 
France !  Soldiers  of  Liberty !  It  is  I,  Bonaparte,  who 
ever  leads  you  to  victory.  Fight  now !  Come,  my 
children.  For  the  honour  of  your  mothers.  Forward ! 
Forward !" 

Down  he  sprang,  and  thrust  through  to  the  front 
and  led  on  down  that  way  of  death.  Marmont  was 
with  him,  and  Muiron  and  Berthier.  After  him  surged 
Augereau's  men,  still  he  kept  in  front.  The  Croats 
let  them  come  close.  Then,  as  the  storm  broke  with  a 
roar  of  flame,  Muiron  and  Marmont  sprang  before 
Bonaparte,  and  Muiron  was  stricken  and  fell.  Still 
Bonaparte  was  rushing  on  into  the  hail  of  death. 
Berthier  strove  to  drag  him  back,  and  reeling  in  the 
blood  and  mire  fell  with  him  from  the  causeway  into 
the  marsh.  The  ranks  behind  saw  him  fall,  and  roar- 
ing with  rage  and  grief  dashed  on  and  on.  They  went 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          223 

down  like  corn  before  the  scythe.  Still  a  few  veterans 
ran,  staggering,  screaming.  But  it  could  not  be. 
They  flung  themselves  down  flat  with  the  causeway, 
sobbing  in  rage. 

Marmont  dragged  Bonaparte  from  the  marsh,  and 
Berthier.  Bonaparte,  dashing  the  mud  from  his  eyes, 
gave  one  swift  glance  down  the  causeway.  Those  few 
of  the  foremost  had  come  to  their  senses  again,  were 
biting  their  cartridges  and  opening  a  broken  fire  on 
the  village.  But  for  the  rest,  swathes  of  dead  and  a 
frightened  rabble  at  the  causeway  end  was  all  that 
the  charge  had  won. 

Bonaparte  strode  back,  giving  Marmont  orders  that 
sent  him  off  at  the  run.  When  he  came  to  the  panic- 
stricken  crowd,  "What!  You  have  done  all  that  men 
can  do.  Why  play  the  coward  now?  Courage,  cour- 
age! We  shall  bivouac  on  the  battlefield."  And  he 
mounted  again  and  sat  in  the  saddle  among  them. 
a  still,  strange  form,  all  coated  with  the  red  mud 
of  the  marsh.  He  spoke  no  more,  he  asked  no  more 
of  them.  But  with  Bonaparte  waiting  there  amongst 
them  they  could  not  think  of  flight,  and  Augereau  and 
his  officers  hammered  them  into  something  of  order. 

Away  south,  along  the  dyke  that  chains  the  swift 
stream  of  the  Alpone,  something  began  to  move,  and 
slowly,  slowly  came  nearer.  It  was  a  battery  of  field 
guns  double  horsed,  with  a  company  of  pioneers  tramp- 
ing beside  and  digging  and  banking  and  shouldering 
the  guns  through  the  breaking  ground.  They  worked 
to  a  place  where  the  rock  of  the  mountains  broke 
through  all  the  rich  soft  river  soil.  Then  swiftly  they 
unlimbered,  there  was  a  puff  of  white  smoke,  and  a  shot 
ricocheted  from  the  causeway  into  Arcola.  With  the 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 


next  round  they  had  the  range,  and  working  like  mad- 
men they  brought  swift  ruin  on  the  village.  The  brick 
walls  bent  and  swayed  and  fell  in  rolling  clouds  of 
golden  dust.  Through  it  Augereau's  men  could  see  the 
white  coats  hurrying  away.  They  gave  a  great  hoarse 
yell,  and  with  no  word  given  dashed  forward  along  the 
causeway  over  their  dead. 

Through  the  shattered  smoking  village  they  broke, 
driving  the  Croats  before  them,  pursuers  and  pursued 
all  one  wild  rabble.  But  on  the  higher  ground  beyond 
Arcola  the  Austrian  brigades  stood  firm  and  smote 
comrade  and  foe  with  grapeshot  and  musketry.  The 
French  fell  back,  and  amid  the  ruins  of  Arcola  formed 
again.  The  battle  was  only  begun.  On  the  slope  of 
the  Alpine  foothills  the  Austrians  were  strongly  posted, 
and  beneath  the  hills  Bonaparte  had  only  a  scanty  strip 
of  firm  ground.  On  either  flank  the  rivers  and  the 
marsh  shut  him  in.  He  had  no  room  to  manoeuvre. 
All  he  did  must  needs  be  clear  under  the  eyes  of  the 
enemy. 

A  long  thunder  away  to  northward,  something  of 
trouble  on  the  Austrian  right,  told  that  Massena  was 
fighting  hard.  But  he  was  miles  away:  he  was  not 
strong  enough  to  help  the  main  battle.  Bonaparte 
brought  up  some  guns,  planted  them  as  he  could  on  the 
solid  earth  by  the  willow  clumps  in  the  marsh,  across 
the  causeway,  in  among  the  ruins  of  Arcola,  and  opened 
a  furious  fire  on  the  Austrian  lines.  The  Austrian 
gunners  answered,  and  earth  and  air  quivered  with  the 
din.  Murat  led  a  brigade  of  horsemen  across  the 
causeway,  and  the  French  guns  were  silent  as  he 
charged  up  the  hill.  Through  the  fire  he  charged  and 
charged  home,  but  the  stubborn  Austrian  infantry 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          225 

stood  firm,  and  his  horsemen  fell  back  with  many  a  sad- 
dle empty.  Then  the  Austrian  cavalry  were  loosed  on 
him,  but  in  their  turn  were  hurled  back.  So  again,  with 
vain  thunder  of  artillery  and  furious  charges  that  broke 
and  shattered  vainly  on  the  reef  of  bayonets,  long  hour 
after  hour  went  by. 

Behind  the  fight  Bonaparte  sat  his  horse,  silent  and 
still  and  grim,  like  a  dead  man  in  the  saddle.  Murat 
was  doing  his  best.  Murat  was  pouring  out  the 
lives  of  men,  and  the  Austrians  paid  life  for  life.  It 
remained  to  see  whether  Austrian  spirit  or  French  could 
longer  endure  the  tragedy.  With  cold,  keen  eyes  Bona- 
parte examined  his  men. 

Not  far  away  Giacomo  Connell  and  his  ass  watched 
Bonaparte  with  wonder  and  something  of  pity  and 
something  of  contempt,  as  a  man  might  feel  for  a  child 
at  some  stupid,  nasty  fault.  Often  he  turned  from 
Bonaparte  to  watch  the  desperate  ranks  and  the  grim, 
ghastly  field  of  blood  and  horror,  and  grief  moved 
strangely  over  his  round  red  face. 

The  failing  charges  fell  slower  and  feebler.  On 
either  side  the  steel-tipped  ranks  of  infantry  were 
unsteady.  But  still  from  marsh  and  hill  the  guns 
roared  and  the  ranks  were  rent.  Still  the  slaughter 
grew,  and  the  torment.  Still  Bonaparte  sat  silent. 
He  had  done  his  part.  This  fight  his  men  had  to  win 
for  him,  to  win  by  the  power  of  seeing  comrades  suffer. 

With  a  queer  nervous  cry  Giacomo  kicked  his  heels 
into  his  ass  and  broke  forward.  "End  it,  devil,  end  it 
in  God's  name !"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  he  caught 
Bonaparte's  arm.  Bonaparte  turned  with  a  start,  like 
a  man  waked  from  a  dream.  Giacomo  and  he  stared 
full  into  each  other's  eyes,  foe  against  foe.  "If  there 


226  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

were  a  way  over  the  marsh — south — by  Alvaredo?" 
said  Giacomo  in  a  hoarse,  strained  voice. 

Bonaparte's  eyes  lighted  suddenly  as  his  mouth 
moved.  He  swept  a  wide  gesture  round  the  battle. 
"So?"  he  said  eagerly. 

"So,"  said  Giacomo;  then,  with  an  effort.  "I — I 
could  show  you." 

Bonaparte  shouted  for  Marmont,  his  eyes  agleam. 
Marmont  was  bidden  take  the  Guides  and  follow  Gia- 
como across  the  marsh  and  up  the  hills  till  he  could 
come  down  on  the  Austrian  left  flank  rear — three  trum- 
pet-blasts his  signal. 

"My  general,  I  thank  you,"  cried  Marmont,  laugh- 
ing as  he  saluted. 

But  Giacomo  lingered,  intent  on  Bonaparte.  "It  will 
make  an  end?"  he  asked,  his  voice  gruff  and  quavering. 

"An  end?  A  victory,  a  triumph,"  cried  Bonaparte. 
"And  you  shall  be  paid  like  a  prince."  But  Giacomo 
laughed. 

So  the  Guides,  the  flower  of  the  cavalry,  the  last 
reserve,  moved  away  from  the  battle  alongside  the 
tawny,  sluggish  river,  and  at  their  head  Giacomo  on  his 
ass  rode  beside  Marmont. 

Behind  them  Bonaparte  was  already  covering  the 
plain  in  a  fog  of  feints.  No  soldier  ever  knew  better 
how  to  use  the  pageantry  of  battle.  He  called  Murat's 
weary  cavalry  away  from  the  fight  and  massed  them 
upon  his  left.  Just  beyond  the  range  of  the  Austrian 
guns,  but  full  within  the  Austrians'  sight,  they  began 
to  make  complex  evolutions  that  brought  them  out 
beyond  the  Austrian  right.  The  Austrians  saw  the 
maze  of  parading  horsemen,  and  watched  earnestly  as 
they  were  meant  to  watch,  and  thought  as  they  were 


227 


meant  to  think,  and  strengthened  their  right  mightily. 

So  that  the  thin  line  of  the  Guides  threading  a  wind- 
ing way  across  the  marsh  was  unheeded.  So  that  no 
one  thought  of  them  at  all  when  they  passed  to  firm 
ground  and  were  lost  in  a  green  gorge.  They  came 
out  of  it  above  the  Austrian  left.  Swiftly  they  formed, 
thrice  their  trumpeters  pealed  the  charge,  and  they 
smashed  down  on  the  weakened  line.  When  their  trum- 
pets spoke  Murat  swung  all  his  horsemen  round,  away 
from  the  massed  strength  of  the  right,  and  charging 
obliquely  took  the  left  wing  in  front  as  Marmont  came 
down  on  its  flank  and  rear.  The  lean  ranks  broke 
before  the  shock  and  fled  at  last.  All  the  army  qua- 
vered. The  strained  wills  were  failing  now. 

Then  Bonaparte,  spurring  forward,  shouted :  "For- 
ward, Augereau,  forward !  They  will  not  stand.  For- 
ward, my  children :  France,  France !"  Then  the  drums 
beat  and  the  bugles  pealed;  and  yelling,  the  French 
battalions  fell  into  column  and  dashed  on  up  the  hill,  a 
dark  medley  of  red  and  blue  and  steel.  The  white 
Austrian  army  surged  and  swayed  to  and  fro,  while 
Murat's  dark  horsemen  raged  in  the  midst ;  and  soon, 
before  the  bayonet  charge  got  home,  fell  back  and  back 
slowly  like  a  cloud  at  dawn. 

It  was  no  rout.  Not  even  in  retreat  could  the  Aus- 
trians  hurry.  Those  stolid  brigades  that  had  held 
Massena  at  bay  since  dawn  covered  the  retreat  and 
could  not  be  broken.  But  retreat  they  must.  The  day 
was  won.  All  Lombardy  lay  at  Bonaparte's  feet. 

On  the  swell  of  that  hard-won  hill  Bonaparte  saluted 
Marmont.  "It  was  well  done.  The  pursuit  is  yours. 
We  are  all  fought  out.  Where  is  your  leader?" 

Marmont  looked  carelessly  about  him.     "If  he's  not 


228  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

here  he  may  be  nowhere.  I  lost  him  when  we  charged. 
Does  he  matter?" 

Bonaparte  shrugged  one  shoulder.  "No,  he  matters 
nothing,"  said  he. 

On  that  grim  battlefield  the  army  went  into  bivouac. 
The  wet  chill  of  a  November  night  came  down  to  tor- 
ture torturing  wounds.  And  Giacomo  Connell  went 
from  man  to  man  serving  as  best  he  could.  Long  after 
the  army  had  fallen  asleep  by  its  half-kindled  fires  his 
lantern  moved,  and  the  coldest  hours  had  come  before 
he  was  conquered  and  slept  among  the  dead  with  his 
ass  browsing  about  him. 

Soon  after  dawn  he  was  afoot  again,  and  he  made  a 
meal  from  a  dead  man's  haversack,  and  he  and  his  ass 
bore  away  a  poor  wretch  with  a  grisly  wound  in  his 
chest  to  the  priest  of  San  Carlo.  The  fat  priest  held 
up  his  hands  in  horror.  "Ah,  pitiful !  Ah,  unhappy ! 
Oh,  that  men  should  scorn  the  work  of  God !  Come  in, 
poor  soul,  come  in,  and  San  Carlo  stand  by  me  and 
thee."  He  then,  puffing  to  help  Giacomo  with  the  bur- 
den, "So.  And  so.  Here  is  clean  straw  at  the  least. 
!And  thou — "  he  turned  to  Giacomo.  "Blessed  art 
them,  my  son,  who  dost  give  me  men  to  help." 

"Faith,  I  am  man  enough  to  need  blessing,  father," 
said  Giacomo.  "And  him — what  of  him  I  brought  you 
yesterday?" 

"He  sleeps  like  a  child,"  said  the  priest,  and  pointed 
out  on  his  pillow  the  very  peaceful  face  of  Jean 
Dortan.  "When  he  wakes  he  babbles  of  his  general. 
What  does  a  monk  know  of  generals?"  I  bid  him 
sleep  again." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Giacomo,  half  to  himself ;  and  then 
he  went  off  to  the  battlefield  for  another  burden.  So 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN          229 

he  and  his  ass  plied  to  and  fro  till  the  cell  and  the  little 
chapel  had  no  room  for  more,  and  the  priest  assured 
him  that  he  was  doing  the  work  of  God.  "Is  it  the 
work  of  God  to  clear  up  the  messes  of  men?"  Giacomo 
grumbled.  His  nerves  were  all  raw.  "My  father,  I 
am  full  of  good  works,  and  I  know  nothing  that  makes 
a  man  so  irritable." 

"Your  heart  is  much  wrought,  my  son,"  said  the 
priest  patiently. 

"My  heart  was  always  fool  enough  to  care  for  other 
people  beside  me,"  Giacomo  grumbled.  Then,  with  a 
fierce  light  in  his  eyes,  he  turned  on  the  priest.  "Why, 
in  the  name  of  God,  should  I  heal  these  fools'  wounds  ?" 

"God  does,"  said  the  priest.  "Would  you  not  be 
like  Him?" 

"I  have  not  the  strength,  I  suppose,"  Giacomo  mut- 
tered, and  turned  away  to  the  men  on  the  straw. 
While  he  tended  them  Jean  Dortan  woke  himself,  cry- 
ing, "My  captain,  my  captain !"  and  Giacomo,  with 
some  impatient  oath,  turned  to  him.  "What  is  the  use 
of  him,  your  captain?"  he  said  with  a  sneer. 

Jean  Dortan  stared  and  recognised  the  round  red 
face.  "My  captain,  is  he  safe?" 

Giacomo  laughed.  "He  took  care  of  that."  Jean 
Dortan  dropped  back  content  on  his  bolster.  Combat- 
ant feelings  worked  in  Giacomo's  face  as  he  watched. 

"Where  am  I?"  said  Jean  Dortan  at  last. 

"You  are  safe  too,"  said  Giacomo. 

Jean  Dortan  made  a  quaint  gurgling  sound  like  a 
child's  laugh.  "My  captain,"  he  murmured  to  himself, 
smiling.  "There  is  no  one  like  my  captain."  Giacomo 
was  near  exploding  at  him,  but  checked  and  turned 
away  with  darkening  brow. 


230  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  priest  and  he  were 
surgeon  and  nurse  and  cook,  and  when  he  could  not  get 
what  he  wanted  from  the  French  commissaries,  Gia- 
como  was  thief  as  well.  Between  the  two  of  them  the 
most  of  their  patients  throve  till  they  began  to  chatter, 
and  some  would  call  for  mother  or  comrade,  but  Jean 
Dortan  always  for  Bonaparte. 

"Oh,  he  is  well  enough,  your  little  general,"  Giacomo 
would  assure  him.  **What  do  you  want  with  him?" 

"He  will  want  me,"  said  Jean  Dortan.  Giacomo 
laughed. 

Bonaparte  had  his  army  resting  in  the  villages  all 
round.  The  campaign  was  fought  and  won.  When 
the  month  was  running  out,  and  some  of  his  wounded 
were  buried  and  some  on  their  legs  again,  and  Jean 
Dortan  could  hardly  be  held  from  trying  his,  Giacomo 
went  out  to  find  Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte  was  at  his  ease  in  Alvaredo,  and  Giacomo 
had  to  wait  till  he  chose  to  get  out  of  one  of  his  hot 
scented  baths.  Then,  giving  audience  in  a  bed-gown, 
"What,  my  friend  the  ass !"  said  Bonaparte.  "So  you 
would  not  die  till  you  were  paid?" 

"You  always  raise  my  opinion  of  mankind,"  said 
Giacomo.  "Who  makes  me  humble  is  the  man  fool 
enough  to  be  a  friend  of  yours." 

There  was  silence  a  while,  and  Bonaparte  searched 
him  with  keen,  questioning  eyes,  but  Giacomo  did  not 
explain.  "If  you  have  found  Jean  Dortan  alive,  you 
shall  have  your  own  price,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Giacomo  laughed.  "I  think  well  enough  of  myself 
to  want  no  more  than  myself,  Bonaparte.  But  as  for 
your  Jean  Dortan  (God  help  him),  come  and  see.  I 
think  he  has  something  to  tell  you." 


HOW  HE  MET  AN  IRISHMAN 

Bonaparte  started  up.  "If  this  is  true,  my  friend, 
you  shall  know  what  it  is  to  serve  Bonaparte." 

"I  do,"  said  Giacomo,  and  laughed. 

So  you  see  Bonaparte  striding  hastily  into  the  cell 
by  the  chapel  of  San  Carlo,  and  the  wounded  men  start- 
ing up  from  their  straw  to  salute  him  and  cry  his 
name.  But  he  was  for  Jean  Dortan's  side. 

"Good  day,  my  captain,"  said  Jean  Dortan,  smiles 
all  over  his  big  face. 

"My  big  Jean,"  said  Bonaparte  with  some  affection, 
and  gripped  the  wasted  shoulder. 

Giacomo  crossed  over  and  stood  behind  Jean  Dortan, 
looking  down  at  Bonaparte  with  a  saturnine  smile. 

"So  you  have  conquered  again,  my  captain?"  said 
Jean  Dortan.  "I  wish  I  had  been  there." 

"You  had  done  better,"  said  Bonaparte.  "It  is  a 
useful  thick  head  of  yours  this,"  and  he  pinched  Jean 
Dortan's  ear. 

"Tell  me  about  the  battle,  my  captain,"  said  Jean 
Dortan;  and  Bonaparte  told  him  a  thrilling,  a  gorgeous 
tale,  strengthened  with  some  truth.  The  wounded  men 
in  the  straw  stirred,  and  cried  out  in  delight.  They 
found  their  own  deeds  more  glorious  by  far  than  they 
had  guessed.  .  .  .  But  Giacomo  continued  to  smile.  .  .  . 

"Eh,  you  are  great,"  said  Jean  Dortan,  drawing  in 
his  breath,  and  his  eyes  worshipped  Bonaparte.  "And 
yet  you  found  time  to  remember  the  little  Jean  Dortan, 
eh,  my  captain?" 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  that  Jean  Dortan  I  should 
be  in  an  Austrian  prison,"  said  Bonaparte,  smiling. 

"You  would  have  found  a  way,"  said  Jean  Dortan 
calmly;  "you  found  a  way  to  save  me." 

And  Giacomo  laughed. 


232  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Bonaparte  looked  up  quickly,  and  met  intent,  scorn- 
ful, questioning  eyes.  He  understood.  Giacomo  had 
set  a  trap  for  him.  .  .  .  He  was  to  tell  the  truth,  to 
confess  weakness,  to  diminish  his  glory.  .  .  .  Giacomo 
had  made  a  mistake.  Bonaparte's  eyes  flamed  to  give 
him  challenge. 

"Ah,  my  captain,  it  is  good  to  follow  you,"  said  Jean 
Dortan.  "You  care  for  us  all." 

"So  much,"  said  Giacomo.  "More  than  he  can  tell 
you,  I  think,  eh,  Bonaparte?"  Bonaparte's  eyes  still 
met  his,  dauntless.  Giacomo  laughed  and  turned  away, 
and  went  out.  Bonaparte  looked  after  him  uneasily, 
and,  as  soon  as  he  could  free  himself  of  Jean  Dortan, 
followed.  Twilight  was  falling,  vapour  gathering  over 
the  marsh.  He  found  Giacomo  saddling  his  ass.  Gia- 
como showed  no  interest  in  him  at  all. 

"Berthier  shall  pay  you  two  thousand  francs,  my 
friend,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Giacomo  straightened  his  back.  "I  have  set  your 
soul  against  mine,"  said  he.  "Look  at  it,  Bonaparte." 
Then  he  strapped  behind  his  saddle  a  little  bundle  of 
clothes  and  a  net  of  fodder  and  fuel,  and  mounted. 

"Where  are  you  bound,  fool?"  cried  Bonaparte  an- 
grily. 

Giacomo  turned  in  the  saddle.  "Where  are  you 
bound?"  said  he.  "Who  gets  to  the  end  will  know." 
And  he  was  lost  in  the  silvery  mist. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HOW   A    WOMAN    PLAYED    WITH    HIM 

GENERAL  BONAPARTE  was  displeased  with  Venice. 
She  did  not  admire  him.  She  wished  to  be  neither  for 
him  nor  against  him,  to  stand  neuter  between  him  and 
'Austria.  And  her  fame  was  an  offence.  In  his  mis- 
sion to  make  the  world  anew  he  hated  old-world  glory. 
Also,  she  was  worth  plundering.  He  was  minded  to 
make  an  end  of  Venice.  A  pretext  was  required.  He 
had  never  any  difficulty  about  that. 

There  was  one  Salvatori,  an  infamous  person,  poli- 
tician, and  rogue  of  repute,  whom  Marmont  had  caught 
raising  a  riot  in  Brescia,  and  proposed  to  hang. 
Bonaparte  saw  use  for  him  alive.  Salvatori  was 
brought  to  headquarters,  to  the  presence  of  Bonaparte. 
His  hands  were  bound,  his  clothes  savoured  of  the 
prison,  his  face  had  the  dirt  and  beard  of  three  days, 
but  he  leered  amiably. 

"Will  the  gallows  come  next,  Bonaparte?"  said  he. 
"It's  only  hell  that's  worse  than  looking  at  you." 

The  cold  light  of  Bonaparte's  pitiless  eyes  cut 
through  him.  "There  are  foul  beasts  that  serve  us  by 
devouring  filth.  I  have  some  for  you,  Salvatori." 

Salvatori  shrugged.  "I  knew  you  were  as  foul  as 
myself.  And  you  are  twice  damned,  for  you  have  the 
strength  to  go  straight." 

"It  will  be  inconvenient" — Bonaparte  leant  back  in 
his  chair — "but  I  think  I  will  flog  you  first.  Berthier, 
see  to  it!" 


Berthier  grinned.  Plainly  he  thought  the  conclusion 
satisfactory,  and  he  scribbled  an  order  while  Bonaparte 
polished  his  finger-nails  and  looked  over  them  at  Sal- 
vatori.  The  order  was  set  for  Bonaparte  to  sign. 

Salvatori's  bloated  face  had  been  moving  queerly. 
His  bravado  came  down  with  a  crash.  "Oh  yes,  I  am 
a  coward,"  he  said,  in  a  harsh,  shrill  voice ;  "you  know 
that,  damn  you!  I'll  be  civil  to  you.  What!  you 
wouldn't  be  hard  on  a  man  for  a  smart  answer.  Why, 
you're  a  wit  yourself." 

Bonaparte  finished  his  signature,  then,  with  the 
sand-box  in  his  hand,  paused.  "Do  not  fawn ! — do  not 
swagger!"  he  said  coldly.  "It  would  take  so  little  to 
persuade  me  to  kill  you." 

Salvatori  gulped.  "Pardon!"  he  muttered — "par- 
don!" and  bowed  low.  Bonaparte  made  a  gesture  of 
disgust.  Salvatori  flushed  through  his  dirt.  "Well, 
what's  the  filth  I  have  to  eat?"  he  growled,  and  his 
bloodshot  eyes  were  unsteady. 

"The  Council  of  Venice,"  said  Bonaparte.  "A 
proclamation  in  the  name  of  the  Council  of  Venice  must 
be  published  through  Venetia,  exhorting  the  people  to 
rise  and  murder  the  French  army." 

"Oh !    A  forgery." 

"You  have  practice,"  Bonaparte  sneered.  "You  are 
to  write  this :  you  are  to  publish  it  widely.  I  will  give 
you  life  and  a  thousand  ducats." 

Salvatori  leered.  "The  Council  of  Venice  urging 
the  people  to  massacre  the  French?  I  see  the  game. 
You  want " 

"You  will  be  wise  to  see  nothing  but  what  you  have 
to  do,"  said  Bonaparte.  "You  are  possibly  fool 
enough  to  think  of  betraying  my  plans  to  Venice. 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM    235 

Remember  that  you  are  too  filthy  to  be  believed.  That 
is  why  I  use  you."  Salvatori  muttered  something  and 
shifted  uneasily.  "And  if  you  play  me  false  I  shall 
arrange  for  your  death,"  said  Bonaparte  quietly. 

Salvatori  looked  up  a  moment — it  may  be  that  he 
had  a  wild  impulse  to  choose  death.  Not  because  the 
task  was  too  base  for  him — he  had  worse  than  that  on 
his  soul — but  to  be  free  of  Bonaparte.  Then,  with  a 
sneering  laugh  at  himself,  he  looked  away.  "I  know 
who  butters  my  onions,"  said  he.  "I'll  do  it,  Gen- 
eral. Why,  I've  my  own  quarrel  with  Venice.  Curst 
oligarchs !  I'll  make  them  a  proclamation !" 

"I  shall  require  to  see  it,"  said  Bonaparte,  and  made 
a  sign  to  Berthier. 

So  the  affair  of  the  proclamation  was  arranged.  It 
was  to  be  the  destruction  of  Venice.  Venice  urging  the 
destruction  of  the  French  army!  What  crime  more 
infamous?  What  could  call  more  loudly  for  the  venge- 
ance of  war? 

Salvatori  went  about  his  business  earnestly.  I  think 
he  had  a  pleasure  in  villainy  for  its  own  sake.  He 
wrote  a  most  inspiring  proclamation,  not  without  the 
tricks  and  turns — he  was  an  expert  in  forgery — proper 
to  the  style  of  the  new  doge  of  Venice.  The  French 
were  brigands,  vampires,  ministers  of  torment,  nor  wife 
nor  wealth  was  safe  from  them:  every  true  man  of 
Venetia  must  rise  and  strike,  and  the  land  be  washed 
in  French  blood.  And  the  like  eloquence.  He  published 
it  widely  in  Brescia  and  Bergamo  and  Verona.  He 
spread  a  rumour  that  the  French  were  for  suppressing 
it,  and  made  the  people  wild  for  a  glimpse.  He  earned 
his  thousand  ducats  thoroughly.  The  devil  had  a  very 
faithful  servant  in  Salvatori. 


236  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

But  conceive  the  agitation  of  the  senators  of  Venice 
when  they  found  such  inflaming  rhetoric  poured  out  as 
theirs.  That  the  French  were  brigands  they  heartily 
agreed,  but  while  the  French  were  at  their  gates  they 
had  been  careful  not  to  say  it.  As  for  calling  on  the 
people  to  massacre,  they  knew  their  weakness  too  well. 
They  had  no  wish  to  bring  Bonaparte  down  on  them. 
The  new  doge,  Lodovico  Manin,  gave  out  hastily  that 
the  fine  proclamation  was  a  forgery.  The  Council  sent 
an  embassy  to  Bonaparte  to  assure  him  that  it  was  the 
work  of  their  enemies,  to  convince  him  how  keenly 
Venice  loved  him. 

It  was  close  upon  Eastertide  when  that  embassy  be- 
gan its  gorgeous  journey.  Venice  was  great  no  longer, 
but  her  splendour  was  left.  Biagio  Valieri  was  one, 
and  Lazaro  Giuliani,  and  Lorenzo  Morsini,  the  orator, 
who  took  his  wife  with  him.  He  had  a  devotion  for  her 
that  amused  Venice.  Soon  they  saw  that  they  were 
much  needed.  The  good  folks  of  Venetia  were  raging 
furiously.  No  man,  peasant  or  burgher,  loved  the 
French  soldier,  who  admitted  no  property  but  his  own. 
They  were  ready  fuel  for  Salvatori's  lies  to  fire.  The 
ambassadors,  torn  between  the  need  of  getting  to  Bona- 
parte speedily,  and  the  need  of  quenching  passions  on 
their  way,  vacillated  and  lost  time.  Before  their  eyes 
the  flame  broke  out  in  Verona. 

There  was  a  French  detachment  quartered  there 
which  had  been  something  more  insolent  in  its  plunder- 
ing than  the  common.  On  Easter  Monday  a  sergeant 
of  grenadiers,  as  he  strutted  the  streets,  lustful  and 
greedy,  saw  some  comely  slip  of  a  girl  with  jewels  at 
her  throat.  He  forced  a  kiss  or  two  on  her,  and  tore 
her  jewels  away.  The  girl  screamed  fiercely,  and  to 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM    237 

the  first  man  who  ran  up  told  a  tale  of  outrage  blacker 
than  the  truth.  They  fell  upon  the  grenadier,  and 
when  his  comrades  came  to  help  him,  beat  them  too, 
and  drove  them  through  the  streets,  and  all  Verona 
yelling  Salvatori's  wild  lies  joined  in  the  hunt.  Then, 
mad  at  the  taste  of  blood,  the  mob  beset  the  hospital 
and  dragged  dying  men  from  their  beds  for  the  joy  of 
killing  them.  In  an  hour  every  Frenchman  who  had 
not  the  luck  to  be  within  the  citadel  was  battered  and 
torn  to  death.  You  imagine  the  satisfaction  of  Sal- 
vatori. 

But  the  Venetian  ambassadors  were  not  gratified. 
They  had  tried  to  stay  the  frenzy,  but  the  mob  only 
paraded  dripping  heads  before  them,  and  cheered  them 
for  jolly  hypocrites. 

Comfortable  tidings  of  it  all  went  before  them  to 
Bonaparte  in  his  camp  by  Mantua.  In  fact  he  can- 
not have  been  much  surprised.  Doubtless  he  had  hoped 
to  carry  the  lie  through  without  such  ghastly  aid,  but 
the  risk  was  plain.  He  was  certainly  not  much  dis- 
tressed. He  could  always  throw  lives  away  easily  for 
an  end.  But  he  received  the  Venetians  with  fierce, 
righteous  wrath. 

They  were  kept  waiting  an  hour  outside  his  tent, 
while  orderlies  j  ostled  them.  When  they  were  admitted, 
Bonaparte  made  no  answer  to  their  salutes.  He  sat 
glowering  at  them  with  drawn  brow.  Biagio  Valieri 
began  with  courtly  compliments. 

"You  come  from  Venice?"  said  Bonaparte  sharply. 

"In  our  poor  persons  we  represent  so  great  a  state." 

"Your  state  has  the  insolence  to  come  to  me  dripping 
with  French  blood?" 

"We  are  here  to  explain,"  said  Biagio  suavely,  "that 


238  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Venice  has  had  no  part  in  any  blow  at  France. 
Venice " 

"Will  you  lie  to  my  face?"  Bonaparte  thundered. 
"How  does  Verona  keep  Eastertide?  Here  are  my  men 
beaten  to  death — ay,  sick  men  dragged  from  their  beds 
to  butchery,  by  the  orders  of  Venice.  Yourselves  were 
there  to  watch  and  guide  the  massacre.  And  you  tell 
me  Venice  had  no  part  in  it!  Hypocrisy  of  hell" — so 
he  lashed  himself  into  a  rage. 

"Sir" — Lorenzo  Morsini,  the  orator,  took  up  the 
tale — "sir,  that  the  Veronese  were  so  enraged  as  to 
commit  this  slaughter  we  grieve  no  less  than  you.  But 
Venice  is  guiltless  of  the  deed  as  yourself.  Our  hon- 
ourable state " 

"Guiltless  ?  Am  I  a  child,  an  idiot  ?  It  is  well  for  you 
you  wear  the  clothes  of  ambassadors.  Else  you  were 
hanged  in  a  row  above  the  gate  of  Verona.  As  your 
Council  shall  hang,  by  the  Republic !  As  your  Council 
shall  hang !  Listen,  rogues !"  He  roared  at  them  the 
lurid  phrases  of  Salvatori's  proclamation.  "Is  not 
that  a  call  to  murder?  Is  it  not  in  the  style  of  your 
doge?  Is  it  not  under  the  order  of  your  Council?  Ah, 
Venice  shall  pay  for  it  dearly!"  He  beat  upon  the 
table  with  his  fist.  The  veins  were  purple  in  his  livid 
face. 

"The  proclamation,"  said  Lorenzo  Morsini,  "is  noth- 
ing but  a  lie." 

"Oh,  your  insolence  is  too  much!"  cried  Bonaparte. 

"The  lie  of  an  insolent,  infamous  forger  seeking  to 
embroil  Venice  with  France.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir, 
to  hear  me " 

"Hear?  Have  I  not  heard  accursed  impudence 
enough?  I  have  done  with  you.  You  have  shed  French 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM  239 

blood.  If  you  could  cover  Venetia  with  gold  it  would 
not  atone.  The  Lion  of  St.  Mark  must  lick  the  dust. 
The  day  of  Venice  is  done." 

"You  are  in  the  wrong,"  cried  Lorenzo  Morsini, 
starting  forward,  while  his  companions  muttered 
together.  "You  wrong  yourself  to  judge  so  madly. 
This  proclamation  is  forged  to  bring  on  you  the  shame 
of  crushing  Venice — by  our  foes  and  yours,  who  yearn 
for  your  dishonour." 

"Fool !  fool !" — Bonaparte  gave  a  harsh,  cruel  laugh 
— "have  you  no  better  lie?  Tell  me  I  forged  it  myself, 
then.  Tell  me  I  slew  my  own  men." 

"Even  that  would  be  more  like  truth  than  that  Venice 
should  plan  massacre,"  cried  Lorenzo  Morsini. 

"Ah,  this  passes  all!"  Bonaparte  roared,  starting 
up.  "Have  them  out,  Berthier.  Out!  out!  Back  to 
your  Venice.  Venice  is  doomed." 

And  the  gorgeous  embassy  was  thrust  out  of  the  tent 
and  hustled  away  with  ignominy. 

They  went  back  to  Mantua  as  unhappy  as  men  of  no 
considerable  soul  can  be — save  Lorenzo  Morsini.  He 
was  only  an  orator,  but  he  knew  how  to  love  his  coun- 
try. The  others  were  saying  that  it  was  very  sad,  and 
probably  the  taxes  would  be  heavy  under  French  gov- 
ernance. Morsini  rode  apart,  and  saw  the  pageant  of 
the  ages,  Venice,  bearing  the  burden  of  Christendom, 
and  her  suffering  and  her  glory. 

Back  at  their  lodging  in  Mantua  his  companions 
bade  him  come  and  talk  in  council  with  them,  but  he 
brushed  them  aside,  and  went  to  be  alone  with  himself 
and  dreams.  ...  In  a  while  there  came  to  him  his 
wife,  Dionea.  He  was  sitting  bent,  his  over-handsome 
dark  head  in  the  grip  of  one  hand,  one  hand  working 


240  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

anxiously  with  nothing.  He  did  not  hear  the  rustle  of 
her  dress,  and  she  knelt  by  him  and  put  her  cool  hand 
on  his.  Wild  eyes  turned  to  her. 

"It  is  true,  then?"  she  said. 

Morsini  gazed  down  at  her.  She  was  of  rich  woman- 
hood, and  passion  woke  in  her  eyes  as  he  looked.  She 
flung  her  arms  about  him.  "He  means  war.  He  means 
to  crush  us.  There  is  no  way,"  he  said.  Then,  as  she 
clung  the  closer,  and  the  flame  gleamed  in  her  eyes, 
"Oh,  it  is  an  infamy!"  he  cried.  "It  is  to  violate  the 
foster-mother  of  Christendom."  Even  to  his  own  heart 
he  was  an  orator. 

"But  you — you  worked  on  him?"  Dionea  cried, 
throbbing  to  his  phrase.  "You  spoke  for  Venice? 
What  answer  had  he  to  you?" 

"He  would  not  hear,"  said  Morsini.  "Oh,  he  is  mad 
with  rage.  He  is  the  very  spirit  of  blood  and  rapine. 
'The  Lion  of  St.  Mark  must  lick  the  dust,'  he  yelled." 
.  .  .  Then  Dionea's  arm  was  caught  in  a  fierce  grip. 
"Ay!  he  gives  the  doom  of  Venice,  this  Corsican 
bandit,  this  scum  of  a  revolution.  Name  of  God!  this 
is  shame  indeed!"  Dionea  rose  from  her  knees:  she 
thrust  back  the  tawny  golden  hair  from  her  brow  and 
stood  panting  a  little,  looking  far  away.  "We — we 
can  only  die,  and  no  help  for  Venice,"  Morsini 
groaned.  .  .  . 

"If  he — if  he  should  die?"  said  Dionea,  very  low. 
.  .  .  Morsini's  hands  clenched,  he  looked  up  at  her,  his 
lips  parted.  .  .  .  "It  would  be  just,"  she  muttered,  her 
eyes  intent  aflame  at  him — "it  would  be  just." 

Morsini  started  up  with  a  cry.  Dionea  and  he  stood 
close.  A  strange  shadow  of  fear  crossed  her  face. 
"What  is  it,  then?"  he  whispered  eagerly. 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM 


Dionea  brushed  something  from  her  eyes.  "Nothing. 
Nothing  at  all.  .  .  .  Lorenzo,  I  could  go  to  him  -  " 

"You  ?"  cried  Morsini.  "Name  of  God,  no  !  It  is  a 
man's  deed." 

She  shuddered,  gave  a  queer,  uneasy  laugh.  "Oh, 
not  that  !  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  could  not,  I  think." 

"No  !"  cried  Morsini.  "It  is  for  a  man.  For  a  man 
the  honour  of  the  sacrifice.  I  will  go  and  ask  audience 
again.  And  my  dagger  shall  give  him  audience.  I  will 
be  the  Harmodius,  the  Scaevola  of  Venice."  She  flung 
her  arms  round  him,  and  clung  to  him  passionately, 
trying  to  speak  while  tears  held  her  eyes  and  her  voice. 
But  Morsini  gave  a  bitter  laugh.  "Bah!  what  use? 
I  am  a  babbler.  He  has  his  guards,  his  army  all  about 
him.  I  --  " 

"But  it  would  help,  it  would  serve  Venice?"  Dionea 
cried,  breathless  and  pale. 

"Serve?"  Morsini  laughed.  "It  would  save  her.  It 
would  smite  the  French  with  the  palsy.  The  Austri- 
ans  would  fall  on  them  again.  Or  at  least  —  at  least 
Venice  would  have  struck  down  her  foe.  .  .  .  Ah,  but 
it  is  all  words  —  words.  We  cannot  help." 

Dionea  shook  her  head.     Her  lips  moved  silently. 
"There  is  a  way,"  she  said,  in  a  strained  voice. 
******* 

Bonaparte  began  to  gather  his  troops  for  a  blow  at 
Venice.  The  Venetian  ambassadors  began  their  dolor- 
ous journey  home.  But  one  of  them  lingered  at  the 
first  stage  out  of  Mantua,  and  there  vanished. 

A  night  after  Bonaparte  had  a  strange  guest.  It 
was  after  dusk  that  he  came  back  to  his  tent  with 
Berthier  and  saw  a  dark  form  lurking.  Into  the  lan- 
tern-light rose  a  woman  dim  in  the  shroud  of  her  cloak. 


242  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

But  the  white  splendour  of  her  face,  her  neck,  and  the 
glory  of  her  hair  were  given  him.  Bonaparte  made  a 
quick  stride  forward,  and  she  smiled  at  him.  Her  lips 
were  vivid  and  full. 

"Name  of  a  little  grey  dog!"  That  helpful  saying 
came  from  Berthier. 

Bonaparte  scanned  the  woman.  "Who  are  you, 
breaking  the  laws  of  war  and  modesty?" 

A  dainty  stain  of  blood  warmed  her  cheek.  "All's 
fair  for  me,"  she  said,  and  her  laugh  rippled  clear. 

"That  is  an  offer  of  battle,"  said  Bonaparte.  He 
smiled  and  showed  his  teeth,  and  his  eyes  were  bright. 

She  laughed  again,  and  then,  as  Bonaparte  came 
closer,  pointed  the  finger  at  Berthier — the  honest 
Berthier  standing  agape,  the  very  spirit  of  uncouth- 
ness. 

"My  dear  Berthier,"  said  Bonaparte,  "you  are  too 
witty.  It  makes  you  at  times  a  bore."  Berthier  still 
lingered,  gaping.  Bonaparte  motioned  him  out,  and 
with  leaden  feet  he  went.  "Pray  forgive  the  gentle- 
man's emotions,"  said  Bonaparte,  turning  to  his  guest. 
"He  is  an  excellent  husband.  Do  you  know  what  they 
are  like?" 

"I  know  all  the  follies  of  men."  Her  voice  was  low 
and  calm. 

"And  of  what  man  are  you  the  folly?" 

Again  he  saw  that  vivid  smile.  "Are  you  afraid  of 
me?"  she  said,  and  she  moved  the  dark  cloud  of  her 
cloak  and  made  clear  the  full  womanhood  of  her  and 
the  white  grace  of  her  arm.  In  a  moment  all  was 
shrouded  again. 

"It  is  you  have  reason  to  fear  me,"  said  Bonaparte. 

She  laughed.     "I  know  nothing  of  fear." 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM  243 

Bonaparte  gave  a  grim,  ugly  smile,  but  she  sat  her- 
self down  again,  and  rested  her  round  chin  on  her  hand 
to  study  him.  Through  the  lantern-light  he  saw  her 
eyes  dark  and  like  velvet,  the  delicate  charm  of  her 
face.  But  her  placidity  was  no  compliment. 

"You  should  have  judged  me  before  you  came,"  he 
said,  advancing. 

"Perhaps  I  did,"  she  said,  calm  still  under  the  greed 
of  his  eyes.  He  made  to  lift  her  cloak  away.  "Oh  yes, 
I  did,"  she  said,  with  a  short,  mocking  laugh.  She 
held  the  cloak  close  about  her.  "I  thank  you,  I  am  at 
my  ease  as  I  am." 

"When  you  have  gone  so  far,  modesty  is  a  betise," 
Bonaparte  sneered. 

She  made  no  struggle  of  coquetry,  but  she  held  the 
cloak  still,  and  met  him  with  grave  eyes.  "Yes,  you 
are  only  an  animal,"  she  said  coldly. 

Bonaparte  let  his  hand  fall.  "What  else  should  you 
want?"  he  sneered. 

"For  the  man  who  thinks  so  of  a  woman" — she 
spread  out  her  hands — "God  have  mercy  upon  him!" 

Bonaparte  stood  over  her  with  drawn  brow.  "You'll 
agree  that  you  came  in  the  flesh,"  said  he. 

"Is  that  a  reason  I  should  not  look  for  your  soul?" 

"Name  of  God!"  cried  Bonaparte.  "Are  you  a 
religious  ?"  and  wonder  grew  in  his  eyes. 

She  gave  a  strange  enigma  of  a  smile.  "Oh,  I  have 
a  religion!"  she  said.  "Have  you?" 

"Who  are  you?"  he  thundered.  "What  are  you? 
What  is  your  work  with  me?" 

She  watched  him  with  calm,  mocking  eyes.  It  was 
a  moment  before  she  troubled  to  speak.  "Is  it  so  hard 
to  think  a  woman  might  want  to  know  you  and  your 


244  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

mind  and  your  soul?  I  am  Giulia  Nerli,  a  widow  of 
Florence.  The  world  told  me  Bonaparte  was  a  hero,  a 
god.  I  came  to  find  what  this  god  was  like." 

"And  you  find  him?"  said  Bonaparte,  intent  upon 
her  upturned  face. 

"I  find  him" — she  lingered  over  the  words — "of 
clay." 

"Women  turn  all  they  touch  to  clay." 

She  laughed.  "You  must  believe  nothing,  you  know 
so  little.  Tell  me,  do  you  believe  in  anything?" 

"I  believe  in  Bonaparte,"  said  he. 

"The  laughable,  lonely  creed,"  she  murmured,  with  a 
laugh  in  her  voice  and  her  eyes.  "Is  it  comfortable?" 
and  she  let  her  cloak  fall  back  to  arrest  a  straying 
curl.  Her  arm  lay  white  against  the  dark  gold  crown 
of  her  hair.  She  gazed  up  at  him  mocking,  proud  in 
the  mystery  and  the  royalty  of  womanhood. 

"I  will  convert  you,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  low 
and  hurried. 

She  lay  back,  her  bare  arms  crossed  in  her  lap.  Her 
eyes  were  very  dark,  her  face  all  white.  Then  the 
full,  crimson  lips  parted  in  a  strange  smile.  "I  am 
armoured,"  she  said.  "I  believe  in  myself." 

"Bah !  The  woman  who  believes  in  herself  has  never 
done  her  duty."  A  queer,  contemptuous  laugh  broke 
from  her.  He  caught  her  arm,  and,  bending,  looked 
close  into  the  dark  eyes  and  down  over  all  the  charm 
of  her.  Her  bosom  rose  fast.  She  tried  to  move  her 
arm,  but  he  grasped  it  closer.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
Bonaparte  is  like."  He  was  flushed,  and  the  words 
heavy  with  passion.  His  eyes  flamed,  and  she  bent  her 
head  from  them. 

"My  arm!" — she  gasped — "my  arm!" 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM   245 

"It's  more  than  your  arm  you'll  give  me." 

She  started  away  from  him,  wrenched  it  from  his 
hand,  blood  in  her  cheeks,  eyes  hot  afire.  He  flung  his 
arm  over  her  shoulder,  and,  bending  close,  "What  is 
it  women  want  in  men?  Power! — power! — power! 
There  is  such  power  in  me " 

"Ay,  to  destroy !"  she  cried  fiercely. 

"Should  I  destroy  you?  Coward,  my  beautiful 
coward,  I  shall  fulfil  you.  I  shall  give  you  life.  You'll 
know  all  joy  you've  had  yet  feeble  and  dwarf  when  I've 
held  you  in  my  arms.  I  shall  make  your  heart  leap" — 
he  grasped  her  close — "ay,  as  it  leaps  now,  and  more 
and  more.  Body  and  soul  athrob  with  life  and  joy." 
He  bent  close,  his  great  brow  was  flushed,  and  the 
blood  burnt  in  his  cheeks.  The  steel  light  of  his  eyes 
clove  her  will,  and  her  lips  were  parted,  her  bosom 
quavering  and  her  throat.  She  turned  her  head  in  lit- 
tle nervous  movements  from  side  to  side,  but  still  her 
eyes  could  not  shun  his.  .  .  .  Suddenly  her  cheeks 
were  crimson,  and  with  passionate  strength  she  forced 
him  away  from  her. 

"Ah,  it  is  too  hard,"  she  muttered.  "I  cannot! — I 
cannot !"  and  she  caught  at  her  furrowed  brow.  There 
was  wild  hate  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  too  late,"  cried  Bonaparte,  flinging  his  arm 
about  her  again.  "I  have  you  now."  And  he  held  her 
while  she  strained  away  from  him,  strength  against 
strength,  will  against  will.  .  .  .  She  trembled,  she  was 
suddenly  white.  He  saw  her  in  the  grip  of  fear.  Then 
he  laughed.  "Ay,  you  are  mine,  you  are  mine,"  he  said, 
grasping  her  closer.  "Your  soul  is  my  subject."  He 
stood  erect  a  moment  looking  down  at  her  with  the 
grim,  greedy  smile  of  conquest.  She  was  quivering. 


246  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Her  eyes  were  swollen  with  terror.  .  .  .  He  crushed 
down  upon  her,  his  lips,  his  breast  on  hers.  .  .  .  She 
was  cold  and  still  to  his  kiss.  .  .  .  But  then — then  her 
arms  fell  about  him  and  she  clung  to  him.  .  .  . 

She  struggled  from  his  grasp  and  stood  flushed  dark, 
her  hand  to  her  bosom.  Bonaparte  laughed  at  her.  She 
saw  it,  and  cowered  and  muttered  something  to  herself 
and  hid  her  face.  When  she  turned  to  him  again 
she  was  smiling  in  a  pitiful  coquetry.  "Oh — oh,  you 
are  rather  terrible,  you  know."  Bonaparte  came 
to  her  and  took  her  hands  and  was  drawing  her  to 
him  again.  "Oh,  no.  No!"  She  thrust  him  away. 
She  was  in  a  frenzy  of  fear  and  shame  now.  "I 
must  go." 

"Have  I  not  taught  you  you  must  stay  ?"  said  Bona- 
parte, smiling. 

She  turned  upon  him  fiercely.  "Oh,  I  am  not  so  weak 
nor  you  so  strong!"  she  cried. 

"Is  that  true?"  said  Bonaparte,  a  mocking  challenge 
in  his  eyes.  "Is  that  true?" 

She  shrank  from  him.  She  brushed  her  hands  across 
her  eyes.  "What  is  true?"  she  muttered.  "Ah,  God, 
what  is  true?"  Then  with  a  queer,  gasping  sob  she  put 
on  the  mask  of  coquetry  again.  "Oh,  I  can  say  good- 
bye. Can  you?" 

"It  is  not  amusing,"  said  Bonaparte  coolly. 

"Nevertheless — my — my  god  of  clay — good-bye," 
said  she,  with  a  mock  of  a  curtsy,  and  hurried  to  the 
door  of  the  tent. 

Bonaparte  caught  her.     "Where  are  you  going?" 

"Oh !" — she  gave  a  tremulous  laugh — "oh !  I  thought 
it  was  I  who  was  conquered.  Am  I  so  necessary  to  the 
great  Bonaparte?" 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM  247 

"What  does  your  soul  say?"  said  Bonaparte,  intent 
upon  her. 

She  turned  her  head  away.  "I — I  do  not  know,"  she 
gasped.  .  .  .  Then,  with  a  reckless  laugh,  "Well,  you 
may  come  and  see  if  you  please." 

"Where?" 

"I  am  lodged" — she  blushed  dark  and  stammered — 
"I  am  lodged  at  the  inn  of  the  Red  Vine." 

"Then  to-morrow  about  this  time " 

"The  god  will  arrive  ?"  she  said,  and  again  her  laugh 
rang  reckless,  and  she  wrenched  herself  away. 

"Sergeant !"  Bonaparte  cried  out  to  the  dark,  and  a 
scurry  of  feet  answered.  "Take  a  file.  Escort  the 
lady  to  the  inn  of  the  Red  Vine." 

Left  alone,  Bonaparte  spread  himself  at  his  ease  in 
a  big  chair,  and  contemplated  his  admirable  finger- 
nails and  smiled.  "She  was  amusing,  the  widow  Giulia 
Nerli,"  he  remarked  to  himself,  and  took  a  great  pinch 
of  snuff  in  his  fingers  and  smelt  and  threw  it  away. 
He  reviewed  the  course  of  conquest.  It  amused  him. 
He  proposed  to  complete  it.  Her  fear  of  him  made  it 
more  piquant.  .  .  .  Her  fear — the  suspicious  Corsican 
spirit  stirred.  .  .  .  His  desires  were  not  to  run  him 
into  any  danger.  The  animal  in  him  was  fierce  enough, 
but  always  under  the  power  of  the  brain.  .  .  . 

He  went  out,  and,  coming  into  a  mess-tent  not  far 
away,  found  Murat  and  Lannes,  drinking  against  each 
other.  Murat  honoured  him  with  a  knowing  leer.  "I 
want  Captain  Savary,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Murat,  who  had  still  some  of  the  manners  of  the 
tavern,  spat  deliberately.  "He  gives  me  the  nausea, 
your  Captain  Savary,"  said  he. 

"That  is  why  he  is  useful,"  said  Bonaparte.     Some 


248  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

one  produced  Captain  Savary,  a  lank,  sallow  man  of 
protuberant  eyes,  and  Bonaparte  beckoned  him  out  to 
the  night.  "You  will  watch  the  inn  of  the  Red  Vine. 
I  wish  to  know  who  is  there  and  who  goes  there.  It 
will  be  inconvenient — that  the  uniform  should  be  seen." 

Savary  saluted,  and  shrank  away  into  the  dark. 

Within  the  inn  of  the  Red  Vine  Dionea  Morsini  knelt 
by  her  bed  in  an  agony  of  confession  and  self-blame  and 
shame  and  prayer.  But  she  got  no  help  of  prayer,  no 
ease.  She  had  waked  in  herself  wild  forces  of  woman- 
hood beyond  her  wit  or  will.  And  a  medley  of  warring 
pain  clashed  in  her.  Now  she  felt  the  foulness  of 
feigned  passion,  and  her  own  purity  was  fierce  against 
her — now  she  lived  again  that  moment  of  ghastly  joy 
when  the  passion  was  real  and  her  body  had  cried 
to  Bonaparte — now  she  loathed  herself  for  false  to 
plighted  love  and  faith — now  the  new,  loathsome  pas- 
sion gripped  her  again,  and  she  writhed  in  horror  of  the 
death-trap  she  had  made,  and  Bonaparte's  doom — now 
she  scourged  her  heart  for  pitying  him.  ...  If  the 
soul's  anguish  can  pay  for  the  crime  of  folly,  Dionea 
paid  all  her  debt  that  night. 

With  the  earliest  dawn  her  husband  hurried  to  the  inn 
from  his  hiding  at  Roverbella.  He  could  not  but  mark 
her  dull,  drawn  cheeks,  her  clouded  eyes.  "Dionea!" 
He  caught  her  to  him.  "Did  he  dare — is  there ' 

She  gave  a  queer  laugh  as  she  freed  herself. 
"No! — no!  He  dared  no  more  than  I  ...  than 
I  ...  asked.  ...  Ah!  Mary,  Virgin  Mother.  .  .  ." 

"Dionea !"  He  understood  a  little.  He  had  his  arm 
about  her  again.  "Dionea !"  he  groaned,  and  held  her 
close.  With  a  cry  of  horror  she  struggled  against  him. 
But  she  saw  his  wonder  and  yielded  herself.  .  .  .  Then 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM  249 

with  a  sob,  "I  cannot.  I  cannot,"  she  put  him  away 
from  her.  "Not  now !  Not  now !"  she  cried  passionately. 
He  stared  at  her,  and  she  caught  his  hand.  "Lorenzo ! 
Always,  always  remember.  It  was  for  you,  all  for  you." 

His  eyes  gleamed,  he  smiled  at  her.  But  she  turned 
away  with  a  sob.  "Oh,  my  love!"  he  cried,  "for  me, 
for  Venice !  It  is  done,  then  ?  He  is  coming  ?  Dionea ! 
How  can  I  honour  you  enough,  you  and  your  sacrifice? 
To  belie  your  own  true  soul!  Oh,  my  love,  my  true 
love !  I  never  knew  your  glory  till  now." 

"You — you "  Dionea  gasped,  a  queer,  grim 

smile  distorting  her  face.  "Oh,  well — he  is  coming." 

"Victory !  It  is  our  victory,"  Morsini  cried.  "He  is 
doomed.  He  shall  fall.  Ah,  my  love,  the  glory  is 
yours !" 

She  shuddered;  she  turned  from  the  light.  "What 
will  you  do?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice  was  unsteady. 

"To-night  when  he  comes  I  shall  be  here.  Bid  them 
bring  him  up.  Have  the  room  nearly  dark.  I  shall  be 
hiding — there — there.  Make  an  excuse  to  leave  him  a 
moment — slip  out  and  away.  Giuseppe  will  have  your 
horse  in  the  stable  yard.  And  the  while,  as  soon  as  you 
are  gone" — Lorenzo's  eyes  glittered,  and  the  blood 
came  in  his  cheeks — "my  dagger  shall  talk  with  him, 
my  dagger  into  his  eye,  his  brain.  An  end  of  the 
Corsican,  an  end!  And  Venice  is  saved — our  Venice!" 
He  looked  to  her  for  some  throb  of  his  own  delight; 
but  she  was  pallid  and  still.  "You  see?  Is  it  well?" 
he  cried. 

"Yes;  it  is  well,"  she  said  slowly,  and  sank  down 
on  a  chair,  staring  away  through  the  morning  sun- 
light. 

Morsini  looked  at  her  with  love  and  pity,  and  some- 


250  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

thing  like  wonder.  He  knelt  beside  her.  "My  love, 
my  life!"  he  said  gently,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

But  she  did  not  heed.  Then  suddenly  she  flung  her 
arms  about  him  and  held  him  fiercely.  "I  love  you ! — I 
love  you!"  she  cried,  crushing  her  lips  to  his. 

Morsini  held  her  close.  His  eyes  smiled  at  her.  "I 
know,"  he  said. 

And  at  that  she  began  to  laugh.  .  .  . 

Now,  Captain  Savary  had  sent  a  message  to  Bona- 
parte that  a  man  whom  he  took  for  one  of  the  Vene- 
tians had  visited  the  woman  lodging  at  that  inn. 
Bonaparte  heard  it  with  a  flicker  of  changing  light  in 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  He  moved  a  little,  .  .  .  then  his  lips  set 
in  a  smile,  and  he  tapped  his  cheek.  "Captain  Savary 
will  arrest  that  man  and  that  woman  and  bring  them 
to  camp  apart,"  he  said  to  the  messenger.  And  after- 
wards, "The  widow  Giulia  Nerli  is  to  be  very  amusing," 
said  he. 

He  divined  a  plot.  Something  colder  than  desire  was 
the  woman's  reason.  His  vanity  was  insulted  and  his 
brain.  He  did  not  allow  himself  emotion,  but  he  pro- 
posed revenge. 

So  when  Morsini  came  out  from  his  wife  to  make  his 
last  plans  for  relays  of  horses,  four  of  Savary's  men 
followed  him  a  hundred  yards  from  the  inn  and  neatly 
arrested  him.  You  conceive  the  orator's  helpless  wrath 
and  despair.  They  hurried  him  to  Bonaparte,  while 
Savary  himself  had  the  pleasure  of  arresting  Dionea. 
She,  after  the  first  palsy  of  amazement,  poured  out  a 
thousand  wild  questions.  But  Savary  answered  noth- 
ing at  all,  only  licked  his  lips,  as  his  way  was  when 
he  was  amused. 

With  four  men  to  his  guard  Morsini  was  brought, 


flushed,  disorderly  of  face  and  dress,  to  the  presence  of 
Bonaparte.  He  glared  at  Bonaparte,  and  Bonaparte 
considered  him  with  pitiless,  humorous  eyes.  He  was 
not  often  cruel  without  a  purpose.  But  always  a  plan 
to  trick  him  roused  all  the  Corsican  venom.  .  .  .  And 
his  splendid  brain  fell  to  work  devising  torture.  .  .  . 

"The  ambassador  has  made  a  mistake,"  said  Bona- 
parte, smiling. 

"You  break  the  law  of  nations.  You  trample  on  the 
rights  of  sovereign  states.  Even  among  savages," 
cried  Morsini,  orator  still,  "an  ambassador  is  sacred. 
This  is  an  infamy,  an  outrage !  Are  you  French  lower 
than  the  savage?" 

Bonaparte  had  been  polishing  his  nails  through  all 
that  eloquence.  He  looked  up  at  the  end.  "We  know 
how  to  deal  with  assassins,  Signor  Morsini,"  he  said 
politely. 

"I  hurl  back  the  name,"  cried  Morsini;  but  there 
was  something  of  fear  in  his  eyes. 

Bonaparte  shrugged  one  shoulder,  but  he  smiled  still, 
and  his  voice  was  still  very  suave.  "Pray,  why  have 
you  not  gone  with  your  colleagues,  Signor  Morsini? 
Pray,  what  have  you  to  do  with  the  widow,"  he  laughed 
gently — "the  widow  Giulia  Nerli?  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  what  you  think  of  the  widow  Giulia.  I  found  her" 
— he  hesitated,  with  cruel  eyes  on  Morsini's  dark  pas- 
sion— "delicious."  Morsini  answered  him  only  with 
glaring  hate.  "My  dear  Morsini,  you  thought  too 
much  of  her  constancy  or  too  little  of  my  charms.  A 
little  experience  of  me  was  enough  to  make  her  betray 
you  to  me." 

"It  is  a  lie!"  Morsini  thundered.  "God  in  heaven, 
it  is  a  lie!"  and  his  voice  broke  on  the  words. 


252  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Bonaparte  laughed.  Now  he  guessed  all.  Now  he 
saw  his  way  to  the  extremity  of  torture.  "Your  wife" 
— Morsini  was  white,  and  trembled  in  the  grasp  of  his 
guards — "your  wife  has  been — wise.  Having  tried  us 
both,  Signer  Morsini,  she  liked  me  the  better."  He 
let  Morsini  hear  him  laugh.  "So  from  her  lips — the 
lower  lip  is  charmingly  full — I  have  all  your  plans. 
She  chose,  in  fact,  to  sacrifice  you  to  me,  rather  than 
me  to  you.  And  so,  my  dear  Signor  Morsini,  it  is  not 
I  who  shall  die  to-day,  but  you.  And  it  is  I,  not  you, 
who  will  be  left  possessing  your  adorable  wife.  She 
pleased  me  so  much  last  night." 

Morsini  stood  in  his  agony,  his  lips  wet,  his  jaw 
moving,  his  eyes  swollen.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  he 
believed. 

"A  pretty  toy.  I  think  I  shall  not  tire  of  her  for  a 
week  or  two,"  said  Bonaparte,  smiling. 

And  at  that  Morsini  flung  his  guards  from  him,  and 
hurled  himself  upon  Bonaparte.  The  two  went  down 
together,  Morsini  above,  his  nails,  his  teeth  at  Bona- 
parte's throat. 

His  guards  tried  in  vain  to  drag  his  desperate  gripe 
away,  and  the  two  men  rolled  together  in  the  dust, 
Morsini  panting  and  snarling  like  a  beast.  "Strike, 
fools,  strike !"  Bonaparte  gasped  faintly  .  .  .  and  one, 
waiting  his  chance,  drove  his  bayonet  through  Morsini's 
throat.  Morsini's  hands  relaxed  as  his  blood  welled 
out,  and  they  tore  him  off,  and  he  lay  groaning. 

Bonaparte  scrambled  to  his  feet.  With  a  gesture 
he  bade  them  look  at  Morsini's  wound  while  he  felt  his 
own  bruises  and  made  his  own  disorder  decent.  .  .  . 
The  corporal  of  the  guard  rose  and  looked  at  Bona- 
parte and  saluted.  "He  is  finished,  my  general,"  said 


"I  Hate  Compliments  with  Thorns,"  Josephine  pouted 


I 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM   253 

he.  Bonaparte,  bending  down,  saw  froth  in  the  torrent 
of  blood,  and  eyes  dull  already  with  the  veil  of  death. 
Morsini's  agony  in  this  world  was  done.  Bonaparte 
hurried  to  his  wife. 

Savary  himself  had  her  in  the  guardroom.  The 
passion  of  the  night,  the  terror  of  the  morning,  had 
clouded  her  loveliness,  and  her  eyes  were  wild  in  despair. 
.  .  .  She  cowered  when  Bonaparte  came  in,  but  he 
smiled  at  her  amiably,  and  motioned  Savary  out.  Then 
he  saluted  her.  "If  the  Signora  Morsini  had  come  to 
me  in  her  own  name  I  should  have  welcomed  her — other- 
wise." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  fear.  "Forgive  me!"  she 
gasped  faintly — "forgive  me !" 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "Oh!  I  have  nothing  now  to 
forgive." 

"Nothing  to  forgive?"  she  gasped. 

"I  have  already  taught  your  husband  that  he  needs 
no  forgiveness." 

Blood  surged  over  her  pallid  cheeks.  "You  know 
it  all?" 

"In  fact  you  were  not  very  subtle,"  said  Bonaparte, 
and  he  laughed  again.  Then,  while  he  watched  her, 
his  brow  contracted.  "It  would  have  been  simpler, 
safer,  to  stab  me  yourself.  But  if  you  had  killed  me, 
signora,  would  you" — his  eyes  were  keen — "would  you 
now  be  happier?" 

She  shuddered.  She  tried  to  look  away  from  him, 
and  could  not.  "Ah,  you  are  terrible!"  she  muttered. 
Then  she  flung  out  her  hands  to  him.  "Let  me  go! — 
let  me  go!"  she  cried  in  a  piteous  voice. 

Bonaparte  came  close,  and  she  shrank  from  him.  He 
took  her  chin  in  his  hand,  and  tilted  her  miserable, 


254  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

drawn  face  to  the  light.     "Do  I  hold  you  so  fast?"  he 
said  with  a  smile. 

Her  lips  trembled,  her  bosom  was  heaving,  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
sobbed. 

"Well !  I  do  not  think  your  husband  will  rebuke  us," 
said  Bonaparte. 

She  looked  up  then,  utter  amazement  numbing  her 
misery. 

"Come  and  see  him,"  said  Bonaparte  with  a  smile. 

She  gave  a  terrible,  wordless  cry,  then  huddled 
together,  hiding  her  face.  "I  cannot;  Jesu  help  me, 
I  cannot !" 

"But  my  one  desire  is  to  unite  you,  to  have  the  joy 
of  restoring  you  to  his  love,"  said  Bonaparte. 

She  sat  moaning.  "Come!"  he  cried,  sharply  tap- 
ping her  shoulder — "come!"  in  a  voice  of  command. 

She  gave  a  long,  shuddering  sob,  and  reeled  to  her 
feet,  and  stood  gazing  at  him  in  utter  wretchedness. 
He  smiled  at  her,  he  opened  his  arms :  "Now  bid  fare- 
well to  this  passion,"  he  said. 

She  swayed  a  moment,  then  with  a  wild  laugh  of 
shame  she  flung  herself  upon  his  breast  and  clung  to 
him.  So  he  held  her,  smiling  placidly.  .  .  .  "And  now 
we  will  come  to  your  faithful  husband,"  he  said,  .  .  . 
but  he  had  to  force  her  away  from  him. 

Blind  and  dazed  in  her  agony  of  shame,  she  went, 
dragging  on  Bonaparte's  arm,  through  the  camp. 
They  came  to  his  tent,  he  flung  the  canvas  aside,  she 
saw  her  husband  prone  in  his  blood.  "He  was  so  moved 
when  I  told  him  of  your  passion  for  me,  that" — Bona- 
parte jerked  a  laugh  at  the  dead — "that  he  gave  up 
the  flesh  for  the  spirit,  and  left  you  for  mine." 


He  came  forward  and  bent  over  her 


HOW  A  WOMAN  PLAYED  WITH  HIM  255 

But  she  did  not  heed.  .  .  .  She  stood  very  still,  and 
gazed  down  at  Morsini.  .  .  .  Slowly  a  strange,  wild 
joy  transformed  her  face.  "Dead!"  she  muttered  to 
herself — "dead!"  and  gave  a  little  low  laugh.  .  .  . 
Then  fiercely  she  tore  herself  from  Bonaparte  and  stood 
erect,  throbbing  with  life.  One  swift  glance  she  gave 
round  the  tent,  she  saw  the  men  of  the  guard,  and, 
darting  forward  past  Bonaparte's  arm,  she  flung  her- 
self upon  their  bayonets. 

There  was  a  wild  gust  of  oaths  as  too  late  the  men 
tried  to  avoid  her.  Bosom  and  neck  were  stricken 
through.  She  started  back,  and  reeled  and  fell  down 
by  her  husband's  side,  and  caught  him  in  her  arms, 
while  her  blood  flowed  upon  his. 

Bonaparte  had  missed  his  grip  of  her,  had  given 
some  wrathful,  wordless  cry  as  she  fell  on  the  steel. 
Now  he  came  forward  and  bent  over  her,  his  face  grim 
and  set.  "Have  I  conquered?"  he  said.  "What  does 
your  soul  say  now?" 

But  she  laughed.  "No  ...  no  ...  this  is  not 
yours,"  she  gasped.  .  .  .  She  turned,  drew  close  to 
her  husband,  and  so  died. 

Bonaparte  stood  gazing  down  at  her,  his  great  brow 
drawn,  his  eyes  dark.  .  .  . 

That  night  he  marched  on  Venice. 


CHAPTER    IX 

HOW    HE    MET    A    JEW 

To  come  by  the  true  end  of  this  chapter  you  must  see 
Nelson  send  the  Goliath  into  the  shoal  water  at  Aboukir; 
you  must  see  Bonaparte  in  the  great  mosque  at 
Cairo  rocking  himself  this  way  and  that  to  honour 
Mahomet.  But  it  begins  far  enough  from  that. 

It  begins,  to  be  precise,  in  a  counting  house  of  St. 
Mary  Axe.  Mr.  Herrmann  Stein,who  was  by  birth  a  Ger- 
man and  a  Jew,  by  nature  a  money  broker  and  looked 
all  that,  sat  breathing  heavily  over  his  desk.  From  his 
shoe  buckles  to  the  velvet  cap  that  covered  his  shiny 
head  he  was  wholly  neat,  and  his  office  neat  as  he. 
His  large  loose  mass  took  so  much  space  that  there  was 
no  room  for  disorder.  Mr.  Herrmann  Stein  was  engaged 
with  a  letter  from  M.  Jacob  Joseph,  the  Swiss  Jew 
banker  of  Genoa.  In  English  it  would  read  something 
like  this: 

DEAR  SIR, 

Yours  of  the  9th  July  received  and  contents  noted. 
Our  house  is  willing  to  negotiate  French  Directory 
bonds  at  the  price  less  three-eighths.  Is  your  house  in 
the  market  for  Austrian  bills  with  27^  discount? 

I  take  this  occasion  to  submit  for  your  consideration 
contract  as  follows :  Mademoiselle  Joseph,  my  daughter, 
being  of  nubile  age  (date  of  birth,  Jan.  3,  1777),  I  de- 
sire to  see  her  established.  She  will  be  ultimate  heir  of 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  257 

my  small  property.  In  the  interim  I  shall  be  prepared 
to  make  adequate  settlement  on  her,  parity  for  parity, 
as  per  subsequent  agreement.  Should  you  be  inclined  to 
enter  into  the  affair  for  your  son,  I  would  suggest  he 
should  discuss  the  terms  of  the  contract  in  person, 
when  he  might  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mademoiselle 
Joseph. 

With  assurance  of  consideration, 

Faithfully, 

JOSEPH. 

"So,"  said  Mr.  Herrmann,  and  his  goggle  eyes  became 
more  defined.  Then  he  chuckled  wheezily,  and  then 
he  struck  a  bell.  A  small  alert  clerk  answered.  "I  vas 
vanting  Mr.  David,"  said  Mr.  Stein. 

Mr.  David  came.  He  was  less  a  Jew  and  far  less  a 
German  than  his  father,  a  slim  man  of  middle  height  and 
a  pale  face,  pleasant  enough  to  see  but  without  anything 
to  make  the  eye  linger — quite  acutely  ordinary.  His 
father  gave  him  the  letter  and  he  read  it  quickly  and 
looked  up  without  a  sign  of  amusement  or  disgust.  His 
face  was  not  designed  for  legible  emotions. 

But  his  father  was  still  chuckling.  "Dot  old  Joseph! 
He  vas  never  having  any  sentiments.  I  shall  ask  him 
vat  discount  he  give  me  on  his  daughter  for  negotiating 
her .  .  .  Or  tell  him  ve  do  not  deal  in  lottery  bonds, 
de  firm  of  Stein  and  Stein  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  seen  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  his  son  blandly.     "She  slapped  my  face.", 

Mr.  Stein  chuckled  with  more  vigour.  "My  dear,  I 
often  vant  to  do  it  myself.  Dot  is  because  you  do  not 
ever  seem  to  vant  anything.  Vot  vos  it  with  Madem- 
oiselle Eve?  Did  you  not  vant  her  either?" 

"She  was  thirteen.     I  was  polite,"  said  his  son. 

"And  you  will  never  grow  out  of  it."     Mr.  Stein  shook 


258 

his  head.     "No,  my  dear,  you  vould  not  be  good  for  her, 
If  she  has  spirit  you  vould  drive  her  mad." 

"I  am  only  a  stimulant,"  said  his  son,  and  began  to 
argue.  His  father  and  he  enjoyed  themselves  in  an 
earnest-minded  battle.  At  the  end  of  it  David  Stein,  still 
calm,  said  to  his  perspiring  parent,  "Well,  as  you  are  get- 
ting so  hot  I  shall  go  away  to  Genoa  .  .  .  Oh,  do  not  be 
alarmed.  I  shall  find  nothing  more  permanent  than 
amusement. " 

Then  his  father  spoke  to  him  in  German.  .  .  . 

M.  Jacob  Joseph  of  Genoa,  a  sleek  old  widower,  di- 
vided his  affections  between  his  money  and  his  daughter. 
He  liked  to  make  one  serve  the  other.  Mademoiselle 
Eve,  stately,  deep-bosomed,  with  Juno's  neck  and 
brow,  had  charm.  Her  father  used  it  in  business. 
There  came  to  Genoa  in  the  summer  of  1797  a  certain 
M.  de  Bourrienne,  the  secretary  of  Bonaparte,  who  was 
zealous  in  making  friends  with  the  bankers.  To  know 
what  Bourrienne  wanted  and  what  Bonaparte  designed 
to  do  next  was  of  moment.  M.  Jacob  Joseph  presented 
M.  de  Bourrienne  to  his  daughter  as  a  friend  of  honour. 
Mademoiselle  consented  to  be  kind.  So  the  disaster  was 
engendered.  Bourrienne,  who  was  neither  modest  nor 
cold,  felt  the  allure  of  her  body  and  mind.  He  would  sit 
by  the  hour  in  her  salon,  his  eyes  wandering  from  her 
eyes  to  her  ivory  neck,  and  he  set  himself  to  talk  his 
wittiest  for  her.  Her  father  got  little  by  it,  for  when  deli- 
cately he  hinted  of  Bonaparte  and  his  future  and  his 
plans  Bourrienne  wrapped  himself  in  a  gorgeous  mist  of 
words.  But  he  always  looked  well  and  he  talked  well, 
and  Mademoiselle  Eve,  fascinating,  was  fascinated. 
If  only  M.  de  Bourrienne  had  had  a  little  more  restraint 
he  might  have  won  Mademoiselle  Joseph.  Then — why 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  259 

then,  the  affair  of  Egypt  would  have  ended  in  Bonaparte's 
triumph,  Bonaparte  been  Emperor  of  the  East,  and  the 
world  worked  out  its  fate  by  a  different  way.  But  you 
would  hardly  expect  M.  de  Bourrienne  to  guess  all  that. 
M.  Joseph  of  course  had  no  kindness  for  Bourrienne. 
He  relied  on  his  daughter's  skill  as  a  decoy  to  keep  M.  de 
Bourrienne  from  being  too  serious.  He  was  incapable 
of  proposing  to  marry  his  daughter  to  any  but  a  man 
of  the  same  race,  and  at  least  as  much  money,  as 
his  own.  He  was  a  devoted  father.  But  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  his  daughter  was  still  modestly 
innocent. 

M.  Joseph  had  made  no  progress  with  Bourrienne, 
Bourrienne  had  made  a  good  deal  with  his  daughter, 
when  Bonaparte  himself  came  to  Genoa.  Being  heartily 
afraid  of  him,  Genoa  welcomed  him  with  effusion.  It 
was  a  grandiose  entry.  All  the  marble  of  the  Via  Roma 
was  wreathed  in  the  colours  of  France.  From  colonnade 
and  piazza  sounded  all  kinds  of  music.  Gaudy  crowds 
swarmed  in  the  sunshine.  Bonaparte's  bronzed,  ragged 
battalions  came  swinging  along  beneath  storms  of  flowers, 
amid  shrill  cheers  that  grew  and  grew  for  Bonaparte — 
Bonaparte  riding  alone,  a  little  lean,  grey  form,  ill  set  on 
his  white  charger.  The  Genoese  cast  him  a  carpet  of 
laurel  boughs,  they  yelled  at  him  "glorious  liberator," 
in  the  hope  that  he  might  be,  and  fired  at  him  volleys  of 
kisses.  Bonaparte  touched  his  hat  stiffly.  Not  a 
muscle  moved  in  the  gaunt  bronze  face.  He  stared  right 
on. 

In  an  upper  chamber  of  the  inn  of  the  Piazza  Deferrari, 
a  man  of  modest  clothes,  modest  form  and  modest  fea- 
tures, a  man  distressingly  negligible  was  smoking  a  pipe. 
The  yells  for  the  "liberator"  drew  him  leisurely  to  the 


260  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

window.  Without  enthusiasm  he  examined  Bonaparte 
and  smiled  slightly.  Then  he  returned  to  his  chair, 
smoked  his  pipe  out  and  by  way  of  a  bath  went  to  bed. 
David  Stein  had  an  affection  for  calm.  That  night 
Bonaparte  sat  late  reading  the  Koran. 

On  the  next  day  David  Stein  allowed  his  ardour  to 
take  him  to  see  the  gentleman  who  wished  to  be  his  father- 
in-law.  M.  Jacob  Joseph  was  rejoiced,  and  said  so 
with  the  aid  of  a  variety  of  languages.  "It  is  heavenly! 
It  is  ordained!"  so  he  concluded.  "I  will  make  an  equal 
settlement  of  what  you  will."  He  held  David  Stein 
away  from  him  at  the  full  length  of  his  fat  arms. 
"My  little  girl  and  you!  You  will  be  a  perfect 
match." 

"I  did  think  better  of  her  than  that,"  said  David  Stein 
sadly. 

M.  Joseph  looked  bewildered.  "My  son,"  said  he, 
"you  be  sure  that  you  can  think  no  better  of  my  daugh- 
ter than  she  is." 

"I  shall  not  try,"  said  David  Stein. 

M.  Joseph  frowned.  "Ah,  you  have  not  seen  her  in 
some  years.  You  think  it  is  safe  to  be  cold.  But  she 
is  changed.  But  she  is  a  woman." 

"That,"  said  David  Stein,  "is  what  I  am  afraid  of." 

M.  Joseph  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"You  are  no  warmer  than  a  toad.  Come  and  see  her." 
He  went  out  and  up  a  stair  and  flung  open  a  door.  David 
Stein  beheld  Mademoiselle  Joseph  clasped  to  the  bosom 
of  Bourrienne. 

David  Stein  effaced  himself  behind  a  doorpost.  M. 
Joseph  said  what  he  thought — it  was  not  flattering — 
in  a  mixture  of  Italian,  Armenian  and  Greek.  Mad- 
emoiselle Joseph  detached  herself  from  Bourrienne 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  261 

and  turned  to  her  father  her  back.  It  displayed  pro- 
found emotion.  But  Bourrienne,  who  was  extremely 
ruddy,  strode  to  M.  Joseph  with  a  jolly  laugh:  "What, 
old  gentleman!"  he  cried,  and  prodded  the  ribs  of  his 
desired  father-in-law,  "give  me  joy!" 

"I  will  give  you,"  said  M.  Joseph,  with  some  enthu- 
siasm, "the  devil." 

Bourrienne  laughed  again,  but  there  was  less  mirth 
in  his  eyes. 

"Take  care,  old  gentleman,"  said  he  in  a  lower  voice, 
"I  am  not  a  man  to  insult.  Let  me  have  two  words  with 
you.  Come!"  He  took  M.  Joseph's  arm  and  strode  out 
with  him.  M.  Joseph  said  more  than  two  words  as  they 
went. 

Mademoiselle  turned  with  glowing,  glistening  cheeks, 
and  looked  after  them.  Her  lips  were  parted  and  trem- 
ulous. Softly  she  stole  to  the  door.  David  Stein  came 
out  of  his  modest  obscurity  to  face  her.  She  recoiled. 
He  shut  the  door.  "Seven  years  ago,"  said  he,  "you 
slapped  my  face." 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  was  white  with  amazement. 
David  Stein  put  his  hands  behind  him  and  examined  her 
as  a  critic.  "Well,  sir?"  she  gasped. 

"I  should  like  to  make  you  do  it  now.  That  is  all," 
said  David  Stein. 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  recoiled  farther.  "You  are 
— you  must  be — you  are  M.  Stein?" 

"I  could  wish  you  to  be  as  glad  of  that  as  I  am, "said 
David  Stein  pensively. 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  tried  to  produce  a  polite  smile. 
"I  am  sure  you  are  very  welcome,  M.  Stein." 

"I  think  better  of  you  than  to  believe  it;"  there  was  a 
flicker  in  his  eyes  as  he  watched  her,  and  she  blushed. 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"I  am  only  an  interruption.  And  you  are  woman  enough 
to  be  passionate  in  bliss." 

"Bliss?"  she  breathed,  and  looked  at  him  with  bold, 
proud,  defiant  eyes. 

"But  I  cannot  believe  in  the  gentleman  with  the  com- 
plexion," David  Stein  informed  her.  "So  I  offer  my 
earnest  condolence." 

She  was  nearly  as  ruddy  as  Bourrienne.  She  stamped 
her  foot:  "Oh,  you  are  intolerable!"  she  cried.  "It 
was  insolent  in  him!  It  was  impudent!  I  had — he  had 
— he  had  no  right.  I  detest  him!" 

Mentally,  spiritually,  David  Stein  was  defeated  and 
stupefied.  Nothing  in  his  manner  admitted  it.  He 
opened  the  door:  "The  ruddy  gentleman,"  he  said 
blandly,  "will  be  surprised  when  you  tell  him  the  news." 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  and  glared  at  him,  trembling  in 
wrath  too  great  for  words;  then  she  whirled  out. 

David  Stein  scratched  his  chin — and  wandered  across 
the  room  to  a  mirror  and  pensively  watched  himself 
being  scratched. 

M.  de  Bourrienne,  in  fact,  whom  there  is  no  reason  to 
suspect  of  being  a  wise  man,  had  gone  a  great  deal  too 
fast.  Mademoiselle  Joseph  was  still  far  from  being 
ready  for  him  to  kiss  her.  She  had  indeed  arrived  at 
thinking  him  a  very  fine  man,  but  he  had  waked  no  more 
ardent  emotion,  and  to  be  caught  and  crushed  and  kissed 
with  the  freedom  of  the  camp — that  frightened  and 
disgusted  her.  It  was  a  state  of  mind  quite  beyond  the 
intelligence  of  Bourrienne.  He  conceived  that  he  had 
sealed  his  union  with  her  and  her  inheritance. 

In  M.  Joseph's  office  he  was  explaining  to  M.  Joseph — 
who  interpolated  torrents  of  polyglot  wrath — how  ar- 
dently Mademoiselle  Joseph  adored  him,  when  Mademoi- 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  263 

selle  Joseph  stood  in  the  doorway.  "My  beautiful  one! 
My  well  beloved!"  said  Bourrienne,  kissing  his  hand  to 
her. 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  stood  white  and  stern.  "My 
father — he  is  abominable — this  gentleman" — she  spoke 
in  throbs — "he  is  insolent — I  will  not  have  him  here." 
The  words  were  for  her  father,  but  her  eyes  struck  at 
Bourrienne.  Bourrienne  muttered  something  under 
his  breath  of  bad  odour.  Her  father  started  up  in  glee- 
ful wrath.  "You  hear  it,  insolence?  You  hear  it?  And 
do  you  tell  me  now  that  she  is  in  love  with  you  ?  No, 
it  is  a  lie!"  Mademoiselle  Joseph  lingered  a  moment, 
her  eyes  angry  upon  Bourrienne,  then  with  dignity  retired. 
"It  is  a  lie,  and  you  are  a  villain!"  cried  M.  Joseph. 

Bourrienne  started  up.     "Be  careful,  old  fool!" 

"Careful?  I  will  be  very  careful  that  my  house  sees 
no  more  of  you.  You  are  a  guest,  you  eat  my  salt,  and 
you  put  an  insult  upon  my  daughter.  Very  well.  Very 
well,  M.  de  Bourrienne.  But  it  shall  not  be  any  more. 
Be  pleased  to  go,  most  honourable  M.  de  Bourrienne." 

"The  girl   is   a  jilt,   a   baggage,"   cried    Bourrienne. 

"She  drew  me  on,  she " 

M.  Joseph  gave  a  somewhat  shrill  laugh.  "Oh, 
this  is  very  good  manners,  is  it  not,  M.  de  Bour- 
rienne? And  her  father  is  to  listen  to  it?  It  is 
quite  enough,  M.  de  Bourrienne.  Do  me  the  kindness 
to  go  away. " 

"Old  fool,  remember  who  I  am!"  cried  Bourrienne. 

"I  know  quite  well  what  you  are,  most  honourable  M.  de 
Bourrienne,  and  I  will  hear  nothing  of  you  but  good-bye." 

"You  are  mad,"  cried  Bourrienne,  and  vociferated 
further. 

M.  Joseph  called  two  clerks  and  bade  them  show  the 


264  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

gentleman  out,  and  left  Bourrienne  to  say  what  he 
pleased  and  go  when  he  would.  The  deplorable  affair 
having  occurred  before  the  eyes  of  a  so  desirable  son-in- 
law  had  agitated  him  excessively.  He  was  burning  to 
explain  it  away. 

He  found  David  Stein  alone,  and  exhausted  himself 
in  many  words.  Then  David  Stein  spoke:  "Who  did 
you  say  the  gentleman  was?" 

"The  rascal — the  shameless  rascal — is  the  secretary 
of  General  Bonaparte,"  M.  Joseph  panted. 

David  Stein — it  was  his  first  sign  of  emotion — allowed 
a  small  smile  to  cross  his  face  as  he  gazed  upon  M.  Joseph. 

M.  Joseph  became  cold.  "What  is  that  you  mean?" 
he  asked  in  a  hurry. 

"I  do  not  know  what  I  mean  yet,"  said  David  Stein. 
"It's  rather  confusing,  isn't  it?"  He  continued  to 
smile  on  the  alarmed  M.  Joseph,  who  had  begun  to  find 
some  difficulty  in  breathing.  "Perhaps  General  Bona- 
parte's secretary  is  now  suggesting  to  General  Bonaparte 
that  you  are  a  cow  worth  milking."  M.  Joseph  inartic- 
ulately protested.  "What  might  General  Bonaparte's 
secretary  be  doing  here  at  all?" 

"That  is  what  I  have  been  trying  to  get  out  of  him," 
M.  Joseph  cried. 

"Ah!"  David  Stein's  eyes  flickered.  "With  the  as- 
sistance of  Mademoiselle  Eve?" 

M.  Joseph  execrated  the  iniquity  of  Bourrienne. 

"You  are  like  the  fellow  who  asked  a  wolf  to  dinner 
and  complained  of  its  appetite,"  said  David  Stein. 
"Well,  has  he  let  out  anything?" 

"Nothing.  Nothing  at  all!"  cried  M.  Joseph,  and 
again  was  shrill. 

David  Stein  tapped  his  teeth.     "Now,  besides  kissing 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  265 

Mademoiselle  Eve,  what  has  he  been  doing  in  Genoa?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  said  M.  Joseph.  "Nothing  but 
dance  or  dine.  I  have  met  him  many  times." 

"At  the  houses  of  your  friends?"  M.  Joseph  ad- 
mitted it.  "Who  are  probably  all  bankers?" 

"You  mean,  of  course,"  said  M.  Joseph,  "what  I 
think  myself.  He  is  sent  to  sound  in  Genoa  about  the 
making  of  a  loan. " 

"Or  a  theft,"  said  David  Stein,  and  again  M.  Joseph's 
horrified  eyes  encountered  a  small  smile.  It  grew.  It 
brought  forth  a  chuckle. 

M.  Joseph  flushed.  His  voice  rose.  "What  the 
devil " 

"I  came  here  in  an  American  ship,"  David  Stein's 
voice  was  plaintive,  still  and  gentle ;  "I  am  keeping  her 
here.  She  is  as  uncomfortable  as  usual.  But  the  cap- 
tain is  honest.  And  the  flag  is — safe."  He  paused 
and  appeared  to  meditate  on  the  stupefaction  of  M. 
Joseph.  "If  I  had  any  bullion  in  Genoa,  I  should 
put  it  aboard  the  Mary  Haven  invoiced  as  silk.  And  I 
should  arrange  my  ledgers  to  abolish  the  value  of  that 
bullion.  In  case — anything  happened." 

M.  Joseph  was  then  eloquent.  M.  Joseph  gave  out 
many  large,  vague,  and  respectable  reasons  against  be- 
ing afraid,  and  palpitated  with  fear.  M.  Joseph  made 
all  the  objections  to  trusting  his  gold  to  the  Mary  Haven, 
and  asked  how  he  should  get  it  there.  M.  Joseph,  in 
fact,  was  not  constructed  to  deal  with  the  extraordinary. 

But  that  placid  Jew  mind,  which  in  Bonaparte's  de- 
spite turned  the  fortune  of  the  world,  had  no  trouble  in 
manipulating  M.  Joseph.  He  obediently  sent  to  the 
Bank  of  St.  George  to  draw  out  the  most  of  his  balance. 
In  the  dark  of  the  night  a  party  of  seamen  of  the  Mary 


266  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Haven  bore  certain  weighty  bales  from  the  Via  della 
Maddalena  down  to  the  quay.  And  M.  Joseph's  port- 
able fortune — three-fourths  at  least  of  his  life — lay  under 
the  care  of  Stein  and  Stein. 

Through  the  midnight  hours  M.  Joseph  made  fiction 
in  his  ledgers  and  began  to  be  very  unhappy.  Stein 
and  Stein,  indeed,  were  held  on  'change  to  be  quite  pe- 
dantically honourable,  but  he  had  never  given  them  the 
chance  to  be  anything  else.  M.  Joseph  had  the  temper 
of  a  man  who  thinks  no  one  so  likely  to  be  robbed  as 
himself.  It  is  not  a  comfortable  possession.  His  soul 
mourned  for  his  bullion. 

David  Stein  after  making  a  precise  estimate  of  the 
total  of  M.  Joseph's  fortune,  and  some  other  calculations 
that  would  have  appalled  M.  Joseph,  had  found  peaceful 
and  quiet  sleep.  He  would  not  be  likely  to  snore. 

Now  Bourrienne  had  gone  away  anxious,  there  is  no 
doubt,  to  show  spite.  But  he  was  delayed.  He  found 
Bonaparte  bent  over  a  translation  of  Barclay's  "Geo- 
graphy," with  great  maps  of  the  East  hanging  down 
from  his  table.  Bourrienne  saluted  twice  before  he  was 
seen.  "In  the  matter  of  the  list  of  bankers,  General 
"  he  began. 

Bonaparte  waved  his  hand.     " To-morrow,  to-morrow. " 

Bourrienne,  though  somewhat  swollen  with  venom, 
knew  his  master  too  well  to  show  impatience.  He  re- 
tired discreetly. 

Bonaparte  drew  over  the  table  a  map  of  Egypt  and 
the  Nile. 

From  his  first  manhood  he  was  possessed  with  dreams 
of  the  East.  The  vast  space  of  Asia,  her  teeming  races, 
allured  him.  There  was  a  mine  of  the  rude  matter  of 
life  that  his  greedy  ambition  longed  to  work  and  shape 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  267 

and  wield.  Asia  was  lined  with  no  stubborn  barriers 
of  patriotism,  no  old  loyalties  to  give  him  pause.  Al- 
ways the  sturdy,  self-reliant  minds  of  Europe  irked  him. 
"Men  are  too  civilized,"  he  grumbled  to  Marmont. 
"There  is  nothing  left  to  be  done."  He  wanted  the  fan- 
atic masses  of  Asia,  blind  armies  of  a  despot's  will. 

He  had  tried  his  own  power  and  proved  it  in  the  cam- 
paign of  Italy.  He  had  made  himself  into  a  consum- 
mate soldier,  and  he  knew  it.  Now  he  was  eager  for 
the  adventure  of  his  dreams.  He  turned  his  back  on 
the  spirit  of  the  West,  on  the  faith  of  the  Revolution. 
"Europe  is  a  molehill.  All  the  great  reputations  have 
come  from  Asia."  So  he  said  to  Bourrienne,  and  sent 
him  to  Genoa  to  find  out  which  of  the  bankers  were 
worth  plundering.  A  little  money  was  needed  for  the 
journey  to  the  Empire  of  the  World. 

In  the  morning,  according  to  the  custom  of  peace, 
Bourrienne  came  to  him  as  soon  as  he  was  in  his  dress- 
ing-gown. While  a  barber  shaved  him  and  arranged 
his  uninteresting  hair,  Bourrienne  read  to  him  the  Mon- 
iteur  and  every  other  newspaper  that  could  be  had. 
Then  they  went  upstairs  to  the  cabinet,  where  the  indus- 
trious Bourrienne  had  set  letters  and  dispatches  in  array. 
Bonaparte  sat  down  to  his  table  and  found  upon  it  a  list, 
of  certain  bankers,  with  an  amount  entered  against  each 
name.  He  frowned:  "We  settled  this  yesterday  Bour- 
rienne," he  said  sharply. 

"With  your  permission,  sir,  I  think  there  is  another 
who  will  be  worth  adding."  Bonaparte  grunted.  "Jo- 
seph. Of  the  Via  della  Maddalena.  He  would  be 
good  for  another  million  francs.  His  business  is  chiefly 
Bourrienne  went  on  with  fluent  information, 
but  Bonaparte  was  leaning  back  to  watch  him. 


268  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Why  have  you  only  just  found  him?"  The  question 
cut  sharp  across  Bourrienne's  swift  words. 

"I  had  been  deceived  as  to  his  resources,  sir,"  said 
Bourrienne  readily. 

"Or  you  had  failed  to  get  a  bribe  from  him?"  Bour- 
rienne faced  the  cold  eyes,  and  protested  vehemently 
his  honesty. 

"You  talk  too  much,"  said  Bonaparte.  "I  know  you 
have  a  greedy  pocket,  Bourrienne.  Remember — you 
will  be  unwise  to  fill  it  out  of  my  affairs." 

Bourrienne  was  again  protesting  with  tearful  eloquence. 
"  Do  not  make  a  noise.  Put  his  name  on  the  list.  Have 
it  sent  to  Savary.  He  has  his  orders.  Now  write." 
There  was  begun  a  dispatch  to  the  Directory  concerning 
the  poverty  of  Genoa. 

Now  David  Stein,  who  was  of  a  contemplative  nature, 
spent  that  morning  upon  the  quays  watching  the  water. 
He  thus  acquired  benevolence,  and  in  the  warm  drowsy 
hours  of  afternoon,  "It  would  be  soothing  to  them  both," 
said  he,  "if  they  saw  me."  And  he  made  for  the  Via 
della  Maddalena. 

M.  Joseph,  with  the  excuse  of  a  sleepless  night,  was 
prolonging  his  siesta,  but  the  sound  of  the  name  of 
Stein  woke  him  with  a  jerk.  He  hurried  with  his  neck- 
cloth awry,  to  embrace  David  Stein,  and  then  shook  his 
hand:  "Nothing  has  happened,  you  know,  nothing  at 
all,"  he  whispered. 

"Do  not  be  disappointed,"  said  David  Stein. 

"Disappointed!"  M.  Joseph  exclaimed  several  times 
and  began  to  babble  about  his  money.  David  Stein 
said  a  little  from  time  to  time,  till  the  styptic  power  of 
his  placidity  dried  up  the  doubts  exuding  from  M. 
Joseph's  fear. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  269 

"I  came,"  David  Stein  remarked,  "to  speak  to  your 
daughter.  I  did  not  feel  it  was  a  moment  for  me  to 
present  my  devotion  yesterday." 

"The  money  remaining  always  at  my  immediate 
order,"  said  M.  Joseph,  following  his  own  thought. 
"Hein?  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  The  abominable  rascal! 
Come  and  see  her." 

This  time  Mademoiselle  Joseph  was  alone,  reposing. 
She  received  the  introduction  with  a  blush  and  an  ele- 
vated head.  "I  hope,  my  dear,"  said  M.  Joseph,  who 
knew  the  signs  of  a  storm  in  his  daughter,  "that  you 
will  make  M.  Stein  very  welcome.  If  you  win  him  for 
your  friend  it  will  be  very  well  for  you." 

"I  do  not  hope  ever  to  make  mademoiselle  that," 
said  David  Stein,  with  a  bow. 

"Admirable,"  said  M.  Joseph,  and  went  out. 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  looked  at  David  Stein  haughtily, 
and  David  Stein,  standing  over  her,  met  her  eyes  with 
all  his  wonted  calm.  "We  have  to  consider,  mademois- 
elle," said  he,  "that  your  father  expects  us  to  marry." 

Mademoiselle  started  up  from  her  couch  to  face  him. 
"You — oh,  you  are  too  flattering,  sir,"  she  laughed, 
but  her  cheeks  were  dark. 

"I  think  it  is  amusing  myself,"  David  Stein  agreed. 
"So  let  us  consider  the  consequences." 

"There  will  be  no  consequences,  sir,"  cried  Madem- 
oiselle Joseph. 

"Oh,  I  hope  so.  For  instance,  when  we  are  married, 
I  shall  not  expect  you  to  blush  so  much." 

"You  are  impertinent,  sir." 

"That  also  will  cease  when  we " 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  stamped  her  foot.  "Will  you 
understand,  sir,  that  this  is  offensive?" 


270  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Nevertheless,  let  us  examine  it  calmly.  You  will 
find  it  more  amusing  tft  marry  some  one.  Now,  you 
know  my  worst  fault — it  is  that  I  never  lose  my  temper. 
You  will  find  that  irritating,  but  not  unwholesome  in 
a  husband.  Otherwise,  I  assure  you,  I  am  attractive.  .  .  . 
If  you  marry  some  one  else  you  will  disappoint  your 
father  and  never  know  absolute  calm." 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  go,  sir?"  said  Mademoi- 
selle Joseph,  in  her  coldest  tones. 

"Some  men,"  David  Stein  admitted,  "might  take 
you  to  mean  that  you  refused  my — 

"I  do  refuse,  sir,"  cried  Mademoiselle  Joseph;  "I 
utterly  refuse." 

"In  fact,"  said  David  Stein,  "I  did  not  expect  you 
to  do  anything  else." 

Mademoiselle  Joseph,  gazing  upon  him,  was  speech- 
less and  seemed  to  pant  a  little.  "But  you  will  admit 
that  it  was  polite  in  me  to  ask  you." 

"I — I — I — "  she  stammered  in  her  wrath — "I  do  not 
know  why  you  please  to  insult  me.  Why  do  you  come  ? 
Why  are  you  here?" 

"I  have  wondered  a  little  myself,"  David  Stein  ad- 
mitted. "I  think  it  is  because  I  once  kissed  you." 

Again  her  cheeks  were  dark,  and  as  swiftly  they 
paled  she  turned  on  him.  "I  will  tell  you  why  you 
come.  You  hear  I  have  money.  You  want  it." 

"Once,"  said  David  Stein,  "you  slapped  my  face. 
Now — well,  it  is  the  same  thing. " 

"And  I  detest  you  now  as  I  detested  you  then,"  she 
cried. 

"I  find  you  equally  attractive,"  said  he. 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  bit  her  lip.  She  surveyed  him 
from  head  to  heel  and  with  some  contempt.  "It  is — oh, 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  271 

well,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  be  angry  with  you.  You  are 
so  insignificant. " 

"This  method,"  said  David  Stein  critically,  "is  in- 
deed more  dignified." 

She  laughed  with  some  effort.  "Well,  sir,  there  are 
people  to  whom  one  does  not  trouble  about  dignity." 

"It  is,"  David  Stein  agreed,  "a  proof  of  confidence 
and  affection. " 

"Or  of  contempt." 

"Previously,"  said  he,  "you  only  slapped  my  face 
once." 

"You  provoked  me  less,  I  suppose." 

"I  wonder,"  said  David  Stein  critically,  and  approached 
her.  She  recoiled  in  a  hurry.  "Have  you  no  confidence 
in  your  power  to  resist?"  he  inquired. 

"The  fact  is,  sir,"  said  she,  keeping  a  table  between 
them,  "that  you  are  no  longer  amusing,  and  so " 

"But   happily   you   have   not   deteriorated." 

"And  so,"  said  Mademoiselle  Joseph,  "I  will  beg 
your  leave  to  retire." 

"It  is,"  said  David  Stein,  "your  first  confession  of 
defeat." 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  did  not  attempt  to  have  the  last 
word.  This  somewhat  surprised  David  Stein,  whose 
taste,  as  you  have  seen,  was  poor.  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
Mademoiselle  Joseph  was  never  sufficiently  attentive 
to  this.  To  the  end  she  allowed  his  audacity  to  obscure 
for  her  his  vulgarity. 

On  the  next  morning  David  Stein,  who  was  of  regular 
habits,  again  watched  the  water  in  the  harbour.  When 
he  came  back  to  his  inn  he  found  his  secretary  out,  and 
the  street  in  some  commotion.  David  Stein  went  to 
his  lunch  without  asking  questions.  His  secretary  re- 


272  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

turned  to  announce  that  the  French  had  arrested  four 
bankers  on  the  charge  of  traffic  with  the  Austrians. 
M.  Joseph  was  one.  David  Stein  made  a  good  lunch- 
After  it  he  went  to  the  Via  della  Maddalena. 

There  was  a  French  sentry  before  the  door  of  M.  Jo- 
seph's counting-house.  Two  non-commissioned  officers 
were  at  work  within,  sealing  desks  and  strong-boxes. 
Another  sentry  guarded  the  private  door.  David  Stein 
was  lounging  past  him.  "Now  then!"  cried  the  man, 
grounding  arms  before  David  Stein's  toes.  "What  do 
you  want?  The  old  Jew  has  gone  to  the  guardroom." 

"I  knew  that  two  days  ago,"  said  David  Stein. 

"Curse  you  for  a  liar !  That  was  before  it  happened." 

"What  is  the  use  of  knowing  things  after  they  hap- 
pen?" said  David  Stein.  Being  a  Frenchman,  the  sen- 
try grinned.  "Daughters  are  more  sport  than  fathers. 
I  want  to  see  her." 

"You  will  have  to  make  love  to  her  before  old  Brass 
Neck,"  said  the  sentry,  and  called  to  his  sergeant.  "The 
gentleman  wants  to  kiss  the  Jewess,  sergeant,"  said  he. 

The  sergeant  winked.  "If  that  is  all,  I'll  turn  my 
back.  If  it's  anything  else,  my  son,  look  after  yourself." 

One  of  the  palpitating  maids  was  sent  to  warn  Mad- 
emoiselle Joseph.  David  Stein  and  the  sergeant  en- 
tered her  salon,  and  the  sergeant  flung  himself  down  on 
the  couch  and  drummed  with  his  nailed  shoes.  David 
Stein  regarded  him  without  anger. 

Mademoiselle  Joseph  came  in  swiftly — her  face  was 
grey  and  heavy,  her  eyes  dull,  and  her  hair.  David 
Stein  bowed  almost  like  a  gentleman. 

"Bill  and  coo,  my  dears,"  said  the  sergeant,  "Old 
Cousin  is  blind,"  and  he  lay  on  his  back  and  kicked  at 
the  air. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW 

"M.    Stein— my   father "   she    breathed. 

"Is  in  no  kind  of  danger,"  said  David  Stein. 

"Hola!"  cried  the  sergeant,  raising  himself,  "who 
are  you  that  answers  for  the  Little  Corporal?" 

"You  mean  it?"  mademoiselle  gasped.  "You  know? 
It  is  true?  They  say  he  lent  money  to  the  Austrians. 
They  say  he " 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  Bonaparte," 
said  David  Stein.  "Oh,  believe  me.  I  have  believed 
in  myself  more  than  thirty  years.  You  shall  do  it  for 
the  next  thirty.  It  pays  well ....  you  are  not  quite  able 
to  think  me  serious.  Try.  It  will  be  worth  while. 
That  is  all  I  have  to  say — till  your  father  is  back. 
Good  afternoon."  And  he  was  gone. 

"Name  of  a  little  grey  dog!"  cried  the  sergeant. 
"You  have  the  queerest  lover  I  ever  knew,  Jewess." 

Mademoiselle  Joseph's  heart  in  the  midst  of  anxie- 
ties consented  to  think  about  it. 

David  Stein — it  is  this  in  him  that  I  chiefly  admire 
— went  to  call  on  Bonaparte. 

To  the  officer  of  the  guard  at  the  Palazzo  Ducale  he 
called  himself  David  Stein  of  Guntter  and  Goldschild 
of  Hamburg.  It  was  the  name  of  a  great  firm  of  money 
brokers  that  had  done  his  father  an  ill  turn.  He  ex- 
plained that  he  had  a  matter  of  finance  to  submit  to 
General  Bonaparte,  and  after  some  parley,  to  Bona- 
parte he  came.  I  like  to  see  them  together — Bona- 
parte's great  brow  and  the  gleam  of  steel  beneath,  and 
his  grim  dark  strength,  over  against  the  little  pale  face 
of  the  Jew.  Bonaparte  examined  him  and  found  noth- 
ing of  interest. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  Bonaparte  snapped. 

"I  want  to  lend  you  money,"  said  David  Stein. 


274  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY, 

"Who  told  you  that  I  wanted  money?" 

"You  did — when  you  arrested  four  bankers." 

Bonaparte's  eyes  woke  to  examine  him  again.  But 
he  could  see  nothing  extraordinary  in  David  Stein, 
save  that  he  was  so  extremely  ordinary.  "How  do 
you  know  that  it  is  safe  to  lend  to  me?" 

David  Stein  shrugged  lightly.  "One  always  takes 
risks,"  he  said,  and  yawned.  The  operation  caused  him 
to  look  away  from  Bonaparte,  and  he  saw  on  a  side 
table  a  map  of  Egypt. 

"Why  lend  tome?" 

"You  must  want  money,  or  you  would  not  be  robbing 
the  bankers ' ' 

"Have  a  care  what  you  say,  sirrah!" 

"I  am  talking  business,"  said  David  Stein  coolly. 
"Your  credit  is  bad.  You  might  pay  well  for  a  loan." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Bonaparte,  "I  shall  pay 
nothing." 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  David  Stein,  and  turned 
away — a  movement  which  brought  him  in  face  of  a  shelf 
of  books.  In  the  middle  of  them  he  saw  a  copy  of  the 
Koran. 

"You  will  go  when  I  have  done  with  you,"  said  Bona- 
parte. David  Stein  turned  at  his  leisure.  The  title 
of  another  book,  "Les  Arabes,"  had  caught  his  eye. 
'  What  loan  were  you  going  to  offer?" 

"Anything  up  to  a  million  and  a  half  francs,"  said 
David  Stein  carelessly. 

Bonaparte,  who  had  taken  him  for  a  common  money- 
lender of  some  audacity  showed  his  surprise.  "It 
would  not  be  wise  to  lie  to  me,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  note 
in  his  voice. 

David   Stein  shrugged.     "Why  should   I?"  said  he. 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  275 

"If  you  have  no  credentials,  sirrah,"  Bonaparte's 
brow  was  lowering,  "you  will  be  sorry  that  you  came." 

"You  are  not  businesslike,"  David  Stein  complained. 
"If  I  lend  you  good  money,  what  else  matters  to  you? 
Well — you  are  only  a  soldier.  I  am  David  Slein,  last 
partner  in  Guntter  and  Goldschild,  of  Hamburg.  I 
have  been  in  the  American  bottom  Mary  Haven  calling 
at  Lisbon,  Oporto,  Cadiz,  and  Marseilles,  collecting 
our  bills.  I  find  you — oh,  you  are  dainty  about  words — 
purveying — the  bankers'  balances.  I  am  ready  to  lend  you 
up  to  a  million  if  it  will  pay  me.  Is  it  worth  your 
while?" 

They  began  to  haggle,  and  haggled  earnestly.  By 
long  and  by  last  they  whittled  their  hearty  desires  to 
cheat  each  other  down  to  this.  David  Stein  would  lend 
nine  hundred  thousand  francs  on  consideration  of  being 
repaid  fifteen  hundred  thousand  at  the  end  of  three 
years.  There  was  to  be  no  interest.  The  bargain  was 
plainly  good  enough  for  David  Stein  if  it  was  kept: 
his  profit  would  bs  big  enough  if  he  got  it.  "It  is  under- 
stood," said  Bonaparte,  "that  you  lend  on  the  security 
of  the  French  Republic. " 

"The  French  Republic  be  damned,"  said  David 
Stein.  It  had  recently  repudiated  a  third  of  its  debt. 
"I  am  lending  to  General  Bonaparte.  On  bonds  signed 
with  your  own  name."  David  Stein,  as  his  way  was 
when  he  was  negotiating  money,  became  curter  and 
ruder  as  they  haggled  it  out  at  length.  He  had  his  way. 
Bonaparte  promised  one  hundred  and  fif>y  bonds  for 
ten  thousand  francs,  to  be  paid  between  three  and  three 
and  a  half  years  from  date.  David  Stein  helped  himself 
to  a  sheet  of  Bonaparte's  official  paper,  and  drew  the 
bond.  He  tossed  it  across  to  Bonaparte.  "About  the 


276  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

money,"  said  he  carelessly.  "Will  you  take  a  propor- 
tion in  silver?" 

"It  is  indifferent,"  said  Bonaparte,  after  a  moment- 

"Good,"  said  David  Stein,  as  he  rose.  He  was  re- 
membering that  silver  was  useful  in  the  East.  "Well, 
it's  a  pleasure  to  do  business  with  you — you  have  a 
clear  head.  Good-day." 

Bonaparte  did  not  answer.  He  was  not  used  to  be- 
ing complimented  by  gentlemen  with  the  air  of  respect- 
able clerks;  but  he  would  not  quarrel  with  David  Stein 
at  the  moment.  It  would  be  time  enough  for  that 
when  he  repudiated  the  debt.  And  they  parted  happily 
enough,  each  conceiving  that  he  knew  how  to  cheat  the 
other. 

So  David  Stein  arranged  to  dispose  of  the  fortune  of 
the  unfortunate  M.  Joseph,  whose  one  consolation  as 
he  lay  in  a  dim  cell  of  the  prison  was  that  his  money 
had  gone  beyond  Bonaparte's  reach.  M.  Joseph  de- 
serves perhaps  some  pity.  His  cell  was  uncomfortable, 
and  he  feared  for  his  skin.  Like  the  rest  of  the  poor 
creatures  whom  Bonaparte  wished  to  bleed,  he  had  been 
told  that  his  crime  was  plotting  with  Austria  against 
France.  M.  Joseph  had  never  seen  a  plot  in  his  life, 
but  he  had  dealings  in  Austrian  bonds  upon  his  con- 
science, and  through  one  long  day  of  misery  he  saw 
himself  shot  and  hanged  and  tortured. 

Bonaparte,  of  course,  had  never  thought  of  putting 
one  of  the  wretched  bankers  to  death.  As  soon  as  they 
were  in  prison  their  strong-rooms  were  ransacked,  osten- 
sibly for  treasonous  papers,  in  reality  for  money.  When 
a  day  of  fear  and  death  had  dissipated  their  spirits, 
each  one  was  told  that  he  would  be  released  in  a  month 
on  payment  of  a  fine.  M.  Joseph's  fine,  calculated  on 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  277 

the  scanty  remnants  of  his  wealth,  was  but  small,  and 
though  he  wailed  to  the  officer  who  announced  it  and 
protested  that  he  could  never  pay,  privately  he  hugged 
himself  upon  the  wisdom  of  David  Stein.  And  David 
Stein  had  lent  three  parts  of  that  hardly  salved  fortune 
to  Bonaparte. 

In  these  few  days  David  Stein,  preserving  always  his 
air  of  ease,  was  very  active,  though  his  activities  were 
mainly  subterraneous.  By  means  of  a  bribed  goaler 
he  kept  an  eye  on  the  health  and  sayings  of  M.  Joseph. 
Another  modest  bribe — he  knew  the  value  of  money — 
gave  huii  the  power  to  watch  over  mademoiselle  more 
closely  than  she  ever  knew.  Meanwhile  he  was  zealous 
in  carrying  through  the  loan,  and  as  soon  as  the  first 
batch  of  Bonaparte's  bonds  were  in  his  hands  he  sent  off 
his  clerk  with  them  to  Milan.  The  rest,  a  day  later, 
he  dispatched  to  Paris.  Then  he  had  a  little  leisure. 

Now  M.  de  Bourrienne,  when  he  found  how  miserable 
were  the  results  of  pillaging  to  M.  Joseph's  strong-room, 
conceived  himself  well  out  of  the  affair  with  mademoiselle. 
Nevertheless  he  owed  them  some  revenge,  and  the  meth- 
od that  occurred  to  him  was  to  make  a  little  money 
out  of  them.  So  as  soon  as  M.  Joseph's  fine  was  fixed, 
off  went  Bourrienne  to  mademoiselle.  The  army  did 
not  love  M.  de  Bourrienne  excessively,  and  when  her 
maid  said  that  mademoiselle  would  not  see  M.  de  Bour- 
rienne the  jolly  sergeant  in  charge  of  the  banker's  office 
laughed  in  his  face.  M.  de  Bourrienne  snarled  at  the 
sergeant  and  maid,  and  sent  a  message  that  if  mademoi- 
selle valued  her  father's  Me  she  would  receive  him  speedily. 
The  threat  sufficed.  M.  de  Bourrienne  was  admitted, 
and  the  sergeant,  who  knew  the  feel  of  David  Stein's 
francs,  lounged  off  to  tell  David  Stein  all  about  him. 


278  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

So  that  Mademoiselle  Joseph,  in  tears  and  disorder — 
the  result  of  the  amiability  of  M.  de  Bourrienne — was 
surprised  by  the  placid  visage  of  David  Stein. 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  David  Stein,  regarding  her 
without  emotion,  "that  there  can  be  anything  worth 
crying  for  in  Bourrienne. " 

"He  is  a  beast,"  sobbed  Mademoiselle  Joseph.  "But 
how — how — how — did  you  know?"  And  behind  her 
tears  her  eyes  swelled  with  fear  at  the  alarming  knowl- 
edge of  David  Stein. 

"You  happen  to  matter,"  said  David  Stein  coolly. 
"How  is  the  beast,  beastly  today?" 

"He  said  that  my  father  is  going  to  be — be — killed," 
mademoiselle  gasped,  and  was  overcome  with  tears. 

David  Stein,  who  knew  all  about  the  fate  of  M.  Joseph, 
even  to  the  precise  amount  of  the  fine,  looked  bored. 

"Oh,  why  do  you  sneer?"  she  cried. 

"It  was  not  amusing  enough  to  smile,"  David  Stein 
explained. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "It  is  true — it  is  true! 
He  says  my  father  will  be  killed,  and  he  will  not  save  him 
unless  I  pay  him  twenty  thousand  francs.  And  I  have 
nothing — nothing!  .  .  .  Oh,  you  are  detestable!" 

For  David  Stein  was  now  adorning  himself  with  a 
small  smile.  "Let  us  be  quite  clear  about  it,"  he  said 
calmly.  "This  Bourrienne  said  he  would  have  your 
father  killed  unless  you  bribed  him?" 

She   confirmed    it   with   a   sob. 

"It  is  really  gratifying,"  said  David  Stein,  and  took 
his  hat  and  went  out.  Mademoiselle  was  surprised  at 
her  own  relief.  .  .  . 

He  made  his  way  to  the  Palazzo  Ducale,  and  he  asked 
carefully,  first  if  General  Bonaparte,  secondly  if  M. 


;  Very  Well,"  said  David  Stein,  and  knocked  him  down 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  279 

de  Bourrienne,  was  there.  Bonaparte  only  was  to  be 
found,  and  David  Stein,  not  satisfied  with  him,  went 
away  for  a  while.  A  while  later,  both  Bourrienne  and 
Bonaparte  were  to  be  found. 

David  Stein  elected  for  Bourrienne.  Bourrienne, 
who  knew  David  Stein  of  Guntter  and  Goldschild  as 
a  man  of  money,  received  him  with  eager  politeness. 

David  Stein  looked  bored.  He  asked  if  M.  de  Bour- 
rienne would  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  General  Bonaparte 
to  give  him  a  moment.  Bourrienne,  flattered  at  the 
flattery,  went  off  at  once,  and  soon,  smirking,  conducted 
David  Stein  to  the  presence. 

Bonaparte  looked  up  from  a  cumbrous  book.  As  he 
bowed,  David  Stein  saw  the  title  of  it — "Les  Mame- 
lucks." 

Bourrienne  presented  him  to  Bonaparte  elaborately. 

He  turned  to  Bourrienne.  "Now,  about  this  M. 
Joseph?"  said  he. 

M.  de  Bourrienne  blushed  violently.  He  made  fran- 
tic signs  to  David  Stein,  which  David  Stein  omitted  to 
see,  but  not  Bonaparte. 

"You,"  David  Stein  went  genially  on,  "you  have 
been  telling  his  daughter  that  you  will  have  him  hanged 
if  she  does  not  bribe  you." 

The  unhappy  Bourrienne  met  Bonaparte's  eye.  It 
was  not  encouraging.  He  made  an  incoherent  exclam- 
ation. 

"Very  well,"  said  David  Stein,  and  knocked  him  down. 
Bonaparte  sprang  up  with  an  oath.  "What  damnable 
insolence  is  this,  rascal?" 

"It  is  a  lie,"  Bourrienne  wailed  from  the  floor;  "it 
is  entirely  a  lie. " 

David   Stein   sat  down.     "The  gentleman,   whom   I 


280  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

hope  I  have  hurt,"  said  he,  "has  been  very  annoying. 
This  M.  Joseph  has  a  pretty  daughter.  She  did  not 
want  this  gentleman  to  kiss  her.  You  cannot  blame  her 
for  that.  But  he  threatened  to  make  her  pay  for  it. 
Well,  what  he  told  you  about  her  father  you  know  best. 
And  you  know  best  what  you  put  him  in  prison  for. 
But  I'll  swear  it  was  not  for  this  gentleman  to  swindle 
the  girl  out  of  ten  thousand  francs." 

David  Stein  had  spoken  better  than  he  knew.  For 
Bonaparte,  who  remembered  everything,  remembered  at 
once  how  Bourrienne  had  put  M.  Joseph  on  the  list 
after  it  was  made,  and  how  worthless  M.  Joseph  had 
proved.  He  knew  Bourrienne's  habits  of  small  extor- 
tion. By  Bourrienne's  flood  of  words,  abuse  of  M.  Joseph 
and  mademoiselle,  tearful  protestations  of  virtue,  invo- 
cations of  France  and  his  mother's  honour,  he  was  not 
warmed. 

David  Stein  waited  for  a  check  in  the  eloquence,  and 
then:  "After  all,"  said  he,  "you  did  go,  for  the  sergeant 
saw  you  go,  to  mademoiselle's  this  afternoon.  What 
for?" 

He  turned  carelessly  away  and  glanced  at  a  book. 
It  was  the  volume  of  Barclay's  "Geography"  dealing 
with  Egypt. 

"I  suspected  you,  Bourrienne.  I  warned  you,"  said 
Bonaparte,  and  struck  his  bell.  He  demanded  the 
lieutenant  of  the  guard;  he  set  M.  de  Bourrienne,  who 
was  now  bedewed  with  tears,  under  arrest.  Then  he 
turned  upon  David  Stein.  There  was  the  gleam  of  a 
smile  in  his  eyes.  "And  why,"  said  he,  "is  M.  Stein  so 
interested  in  M.  Joseph?" 

"She  is  a  pretty  girl,"  said  David  Stein. 

"Is    that    all  you  came  to  say  to  me?" 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  281 

"She  wants  M.  Joseph.  So  I  have  to  want  him," 
said  David  Stein,  and  he  yawned  at  the  thought.  "Well, 
let  me  put  it  to  you.  He  is  not  worth  much.  You  know 
Bourrienne  only  set  him  on  your  list  because  he  wanted 
to  make  his  private  twopence-ha'penny.  I  have  been 
some  little  use  to  you.  Let  me  have  M.  Joseph." 

"Mademoiselle  Joseph  has  no  doubt  very  beautiful 
eyes?"  Bonaparte  inquired  suavely. 

"There  is  no  more  beautiful  woman,"  said  David 
Stein,  with  calm  assurance. 

"My  felicitations.  But  your  eyes  are  not  very  beauti- 
ful, M.  Stein,  and  I  am  not  going  to  give  you  anything 
for  their  sake." 

David  Stein  was  frankly  annoyed.  He  was  rude. 
"Do  you  mean  to  go  in  for  Bourrienne's  trade?"  he 
snarled. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "Let  me  put  it  to  you,"  he 
said,  mocking  Stein's  placid  phrase.  "I  thought  I 
could  only  get  twenty -five  thousand  francs  of  a  fine 
out  of  M.  Joseph.  But  I  find  there  is  some  one  who 
wants  him,  and  his  price  goes  up  to  a  hundred  thousand." 

"It  is  a  damned  theft,"  said  David  Stein,  who  was 
very  angry. 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "You  must  expect  to  pay  for 
the  beauty,"  said  he. 

David  Stein  began  to  haggle,  and  haggled  hard  and 
well  and  long;  but  Bonaparte  was  stubborn,  and  at 
last  difficultly  he  was  forced  to  Bonaparte's  price. 
"I'll  pay  it  and  curse  you  for  a  thief,"  he  snarled.  He 
was  in  the  worst  of  temper.  "You'll  have  the  money  in 
the  morning.  I'll  have  the  man. " 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  affection  for  your  father- 
in-law,"  said  Bonaparte,  smiling. 


282  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

David  Stein  growled  something  that  does  not  matter, 
and  glared  at  Bonaparte,  who  ushered  him  out  with  po- 
liteness. He  did  not  dare  take  his  temper  to  Mad- 
emoiselle Joseph,  so  he  wrote  her  twelve  words  to  say 
that  her  father  would  be  free  in  the  morning.  And 
then  he  turned  his  very  acute  brain  to  devise  damage 
for  Bonaparte.  His  temper  often  affected  his  manner, 
but  never  his  judgment.  ;  .  . 

In  the  morning,  after  a  visit  to  the  Mary  Haven — 
the  dregs  of  M.  Joseph's  fortune  provided  the  ransom  of 
M.  Joseph — he  came  to  pay  Bonaparte.  Now,  with 
a  keen  interest  he  marked  that  every  book  in  Bona- 
parte's room  was  concerned  with  Egypt  and  the  East. 
He  prolonged  his  business  a  little  while  he  counted  the 
maps.  He  was  gruff,  and  Bonaparte  genially  trium- 
phant. 

Once  out  of  Bonaparte's  presence  his  sulkiness  wore 
away.  M.  Joseph,  brought  to  freedom  by  the  ex- 
pensive order  of  release,  found  him  placidly  ordinary. 
M.  Joseph  embraced  him  with  fervour. 

"You  are  not  your  daughter,"  said  David  Stein, 
extricating  himself. 

"My  son,"  cried  M.  Joseph,  "you  have  saved  me. 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say." 

"Then  do  not  say  them  in  the  street,"  said  David 
Stein. 

M.  Joseph  recovered  himself,  tapped  his  nose,  and 
praised  David  Stein's  wisdom.  On  their  way  to  the 
Via  della  M^addalena,  M.  Joseph  was  continually  talking, 
checking  himself  violently  when  he  began  to  say  any- 
thing of  importance.  David  Stein  did  not  listen  much. 
It  is  to  be  recorded  to  M.  Joseph's  credit  that  once  safe 
in  his  house  he  embraced  his  daughter  before  he  asked 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  283 

after  his  money.  He  thrust  the  smiling  girl  at  David 
Stein,  crying:  "Thank  him,  my  daughter.  He  has  saved 
us.  He  has  saved  my  fortune. " 

"If  monsieur  pleases,"  said  the  girl,  her  eyes  veiled — 
"if  monsieur  pleases." 

Monseiur  was  pleased   to  take   no  notice. 

"We  shall  have  to  get  out  of  this  town,  you  know," 
he  said  to  M.  Joseph. 

"At  once!"  cried  M.  Joseph.  "We  will  sail  at  once 
on  your  ship  with  my  finances. " 

"We  shan't  sail  with  your  finances,"  said  David  Stein 
placidly.  "I  have  lent  them  to  Bonaparte." 

M.  Joseph  screamed.  Then  he  repeated  the  words 
again  and  again,  and  at  last  believed  and  raved  and  wept. 
Before  the  tears  came,  David  Stein — whom  mademoiselle 
had  been  watching  calmly  indeed,  but  with  wonder  and 
fear — sat  down  at  the  table  and  began  to  write.  To  M. 
Joseph  in  his  hysteria  he  gave  a  paper  still  wet.  It 
was  a  promise  to  pay  fourteen  hundred  thousand  francs, 
signed  in  the  name  of  Stein  and  Stein. 

M.  Joseph's  ravings  checked  suddenly  with  a  queer 
choking  cough.  He  tried  in  vain  for  a  moment  to  speak. 
"Fourteen  hundred  thousand?"  he  gasped.  "But  I 
had  only  twelve  hundred  thousand  on  your  ship.  What 
is  it?  How— 

"Do  not  make  a  noise  like  a  hen,"  said  David  Stein, 
"and  I  will  tell  you."  What  he  told  was  chiefly  this. 
He  lent  Bonaparte  nine  hundred  thousand  francs,  you 
remember,  in  return  for  bonds  for  fifteen  hundred  thou- 
sand. Part  of  those  bonds  he  had  sold  to  the  Directory 
in  Paris,  part  to  Bonaparte's  generals  in  Milan,  fat  with 
Italian  plunder,  for  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  thousand. 
David  Stein,  making  forty  per  cent,  profit,  did  not  mind 


284  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

their  netting  twenty  per  cent.  It  all  came  out  of  Bona- 
parte. On  the  Mary  Haven  there  remained  three 
hundred  thousand  francs,  of  which  one  hundred  thousand 
had  to  be  paid  for  M.  Joseph's  ransom.  Bonaparte  had 
spoilt  the  pure  beauty  of  the  speculation. 

"It  is  a  nuisance,"  said  David  Stein  frankly,  "and  I 
do  not  know  that  you  are  worth  it.  But  even  so  there 
are  two  hundred  thousand  of  profit. " 

"It  is  wonderful.  It  is  a  miracle.  It  is  sixteen  per 
cent.,"  cried  M.  Joseph,  and  shook  David  Stein's  hands 
with  fervour. 

"But  we  shall  have  to  get  out  of  this  town,"  said 
David  Stein,  "for  when  Bonaparte  finds  that  he  owes 
fifteen  hundred  thousand  to  Massena  and  Augereau  and 
Barras,  instead  of  David  Stein,  he  may  not  be  pleased." 
He  allowed  himself  a  small  smile.  "They  will  be  able 
to  see  themselves  paid,  you  see." 

"It  is  magnificent,"  cried  M.  Joseph.  "Ah,  my 
friend,  my  son,  it  is  a  noble  thing.  How  shall  I  thank 
you?" 

"You  might  go  away,"  said  David  Stein.  M.  Joseph 
gasped.  David  Stein  directed  his  eyes  to  mademoiselle. 

"Mademoiselle  would  probably  prefer  you  to  go 
away,"  he  explained.  And  M.  Joseph  went,  calling 
down  blessings. 

David  Stein  approached  the  delectable  shyness  of 
mademoiselle.  He  took  her  chin  in  his  hand  and  lifted 
her  head.  "It  does  please  me,  you  know,"  said  he. 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  his.  .  .  . 

But  even  so  David  Stein  had  not  settled  his  account 
with  Bonaparte. 

##***## 

It  was  in  the  instructions  of  the  Admiralty  to  my 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  285 

Lord  St.  Vincent  that  a  fleet  should  be  sent  into  the 
Mediterranean  to  attend  to  Bonaparte:  "and  my  lords 
suggest  to  you  the  propriety  of  putting  it  under  the  com- 
mand of  Sir  Horatio  Nelson."  Sir  Horatio  Nelson, 
Rear-Admiral  of  the  Blue,  sailed  with  three  ships  of  the 
line,  and  Troubridge  followed  with  ten  from  Cadiz  and 
the  brig  La  Mutine. 

Bonaparte  had  won  to  Egypt,  beaten  the  power  of  the 
Mamelukes  and  set  himself  to  wake  the  old  splendours 
of  the  land.  His  men  of  science  turned  to  study  the  river 
and  the  soil,  his  scholars  broke  into  the  treasures  of  Mem- 
phis and  the  vast  monuments  of  the  mother  of  civilisations. 
But  Bonaparte  lived  in  the  present.  He  was  eager  to 
enlist  the  religion  of  the  East.  Mahomet's  followers 
would  be  led  by  none  but  a  believer  in  Mahomet.  He 
began  to  deal  with  the  Sheiks  and  Imaums.  Might 
one  uncircumcised,  he  asked,  come  into  the  true  fold  ? 
And  the  Imaums  of  Cairo  told  him  that  it  might  be. 

The  stars  were  white  in  a  black  vault  over  Cairo.  On 
the  roof  of  the  palace  of  Murad  Bey  Bonaparte  walked 
with  Monge  and  Berthollet  and  other  men  of  science, 
and  they  philosophised  and  talked  atheism.  .  .  .  Bona- 
parte walked  listening,  a  while  silent.  Then  he  pointed 
up  to  the  dark  dome  of  stars.  "Messieurs,  who  made 
all  that?.  ..." 

A  while  later  the  muezzin's  voices  pealed  the  Abrar, 
the  call  to  prayer,  and  Bonaparte  in  turban  and  the 
garb  of  the  Faithful  went  into  the  Mosque  of  Taylun 
and  there,  beneath  the  close-woven  fretwork  and 
flowers  and  the  blazoned  quotations  of  the  Koran, 
rocked  himself  and  prayed  loud  in  the  orthodoxy  of 
Mahomet.  .  .  . 

His  was   the  religion  that  paid  him  cash.     Whether 


*86  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

he  found  ever  anything  better — well,  it  may  be  that  now 
he  knows. 

Away  in  Aboukir  Bay  the  fleet,  his  one  bond  with 
France,  went  down  that  night  to  doom.  Before  sundown 
Nelson  had  seen  their  topmasts  against  the  southern 
sky  and  his  fleet  hauled  sharp  on  the  wind,  and  the  sig- 
nals flew  and  they  formed  in  line  ahead.  The  French 
ships  swung  at  anchor  between  the  island  and  the  land 
in  the  lee  of  a  long  shoal.  It  was  close  upon  dusk  and 
the  strait  was  perilous.  But  Nelson  brought  his  fleet 
in  cleared  for  action.  Captain  Hood,  in  the  Ztealous  was 
leading,  and  as  they  drew  abeam  of  the  island  Nelson 
hailed  to  ask  if  he  had  water  enough  to  clear  the 
shoal;  then  the  Zealous  bore  up  and  took  soundings, 
spending  the  dear  minutes  of  daylight.  Nelson  risked 
no  more  than  he  must.  With  the  Goliath  drawing  close 
upon  her  lee  bow,  the  Zealous  slipped  between  the  French 
fleet  and  the  land.  And  the  English  ships  gathered  about 
the  van  of  the  French,  and  the  battle  was  set,  and  in  a  lit- 
tle while  the  Guerrier  and  the  ConquSrant  lay  shattered 
to  silence.  Night  fell,  and  still  the  broadsides  flamed 
and  thundered  and  the  dark  water  glowed.  Three 
hours  after  battle  was  joined  a  red  glow  broke  out  on 
the  French  flagship  Orient  and  the  Bellerophon  turned 
her  guns  upon  the  fire  until  the  great  ship  was  rent  in 
light  and  thunder  and  the  zenith  and  the  waves  were  all 
one  lurid  cloud  of  flame.  When  morning  came  six 
French  ships  of  the  line  had  struck,  three  were  beaten 
ashore  and  the  charred  timbers  of  the  flagship  were 
scattered  all  across  the  Bay.  Bonaparte  was  cut  off 
from  France. 

The  tidings  came  to  him  at  Cairo,  and  he  grew  pale, 
they  say,  and  cursed  the  dead  admiral  a  while.  Half  his 


HOW  HE  MET  A  JEW  287 

hopes  were  gone.  He  might  go  on  some  little  way  and 
conquer,  but  England  held  the  sea,  and  even  with  victory 
his  army  must  wane  and  wane.  He  could  draw  no  new 
strength  from  France.  So  he  abused  the  dead. 

******* 

It  was  some  time  before  he  awoke  to  the  alarm  of  his 
generals.  Then  he  slapped  Murat  on  the  shoulder. 
"Well!"  he  cried.  "Here  we  must  stay  or  win  a 
grandeur  like  that  of  the  ancients."  But  Murat  turned 
off  with  a  shrug.  He  was  not  in  love  with  the  adven- 
ture, not  he  nor  Lannes  nor  Bessieres,  nor  even 
Berthier,  and  the  palsy  of  doubt  spread  over  the  army. 

When  Nelson  sent  his  prisoners  ashore  they  brought 
with  them,  among  other  letters,  this: 

To  His  EXCELLENCY  GENERAL  BONAPARTE. 

When  negotiating  some  small  matters  with  you  at 
Genoa  I  had  the  pleasure  of  noting  the  literature  which 
engaged  your  attention.  I  was  therefore  able  to  ac- 
quaint my  Lord  Spencer  and  the  English  Board  of  Ad- 
miralty with  your  intention  to  attack  Egypt,  and  they 
very  kindly  arranged  for  an  English  fleet  to  look  after 
you.  I  hope  you  liked  it.  It  was  perhaps  not  worth 
while  to  charge  so  dear  for  M.  Joseph. 

With  assurance  of  distinguished  esteem. 
DAVID  STEIN, 

pp.  Guntter  and  Goldschild. 

That  firm,  you  remember,  had  done  an  ill  turn  to 
David  Stein's  father. 


CHAPTER  X 

HOW    HE    FAILED    HIS    FORTUNE 

FROM  the  mound  where  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  stood 
long  ago  General  Bonaparte  watched  dawn  break  upon 
the  ramparts  of  St.  Jean  d'Acre.  The  violet  sky 
changed  for  a  brighter  blue,  the  black  sea  grew  violet 
to  the  sparkling  silver  of  the  beach,  and  walls  and 
towers  were  of  gold.  General  Bonaparte  stood  still 
leaning  upon  the  great  shoulder  of  Jean  Dortan,  the 
sturdy  Dauphiny  blacksmith,  half-servant,  half-guard, 
all  friend.  He  pointed  to  the  scanty  circuit  of  the 
town.  "There  is  the  key  of  the  world,  Jean,"  said  he. 

Jean  Dortan  shrugged.  "It  is  a  very  little  key  for 
so  large  a  world,  my  general." 

"You  see  only  with  your  eyes,  my  poor  Jean." 

"Then  I  see  only  what  is." 

"But  not  all  of  it.  See  with  my  mind,  Jean.  I 
take  that  baby  of  a  town.  I  find  in  it  the  pacha's 
treasures  and  arms  for  three  hundred  thousand  men. 
I  raise  all  Syria  against  the  Turk.  I  make  an  end  of 
slavery,  and  the  slaves  are  for  me.  I  take  Damascus, 
Aleppo.  I  come  down  upon  Constantinople  with  the 
greatest  army  in  the  world.  I  overthrow  the  Sultan. 
I  found  a  new  vast  Empire  of  the  East.  Then  I  take 
Europe  in  reverse.  I  abolish  Austria,  Prussia.  I 
return  to  France  world  conqueror." 

Jean  Dortan  shrugged.  "If  it  amuses  you,  my  gen- 
eral  "  said  he. 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       289 

Bonaparte  laughed  and  pinched  his  ear.  "Giant, 
have  you  no  ambition,  then?" 

"I  like  to  sleep  o'  nights,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

Over  the  southward  horizon  white  topsails  rose. 
Bonaparte  took  his  telescope  from  Jean  Dortan  and 
looked  long  while  the  towers  of  canvas  came  clearer. 
"Good !  It  is  my  gunboats,"  he  announced  and  turned 
smiling  to  Jean  Dortan.  "Great  animal!  Away  with 
you  and  tell  Caffarelli."  Jean  Dortan  ran  off,  and 
Bonaparte  trained  his  glass  again  to  seaward.  Six 
craft  were  making  for  the  roadstead.  And  now,  as  the 
horizon  fell  back  before  the  brighter  light  of  day,  into 
sight  came  two  ships  that  bore  a  heavier  press  of 
sail.  They  were  English  frigates.  Bonaparte  smiled. 
"Good!"  said  he;  "we  have  tricked  our  friends  the 
English  this  time." 

Caffarelli  came  stumping  with  his  wooden  leg  after 
Jean  Dortan.  Bonaparte  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"Ha,  my  friend!  Now  we  shall  finish  with  St.  Jean 
d'Acre.  Here  are  our  boats.  You  must  have  their 
siege-guns  in  position  by  sundown." 

The  old  engineer  officer  held  out  his  hand  for  Bona- 
parte's glass  and  stared  stolidly  across  the  roadstead. 
The  gunboats  were  already  shortening  sail.  "It  seems 
to  me,"  he  said  at  length  and  deliberately,  "it  seems  to 
me  that  our  gunboats  are  flying  the  English  flag." 

Bonaparte  snatched  the  glass  from  him.  There  was 
no  doubt  of  it.  Torride,  Deux  Freres,  Dangereux, 
Dame  de  Grace,  Negresse,  Marie  Rose — over  each 
floated  the  white  ensign  of  the  English  navy.  Bona- 
parte smashed  his  glass  together  with  a  snap  and, 
turning  on  Caffarelli  with  dark  brow  and  eyes  aflame, 
poured  out  a  volley  of  curses  at  his  sailors.  Then  he 


290  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

strode  off,  stamping  his  heels  down  hard  into  the  sand. 

"What  he  wants,  he  wants  too  much,  our  Little  Cor- 
poral," quoth  Caffarelli  to  Jean  Dortan.  "Well,  lend 
me  your  shoulder.  I  have  one  leg  in  France,  and  I  do 
not  want  to  leave  the  other  here."  With  Jean  Dortan's 
aid  he  stumped  laboriously  back  through  the  sands. 

So  the  English  sailors  brought  their  captured  gun- 
boats up  to  the  quay,  while  the  frigates  Alliance  and 
Tigre  dropped  anchor  in  the  roadstead.  Then  there 
came  by  a  flag  of  truce  this  letter : 

To  GENERAL  BONAPARTE,  commanding  the  French 

Army  besieging  Acre — 

I  have  the  honour  to  thank  your  Excellency  for  your 
courtesy  in  providing  me  with  stores,  ammunition,  and 
heavy  guns  necessary  for  the  defence  of  Acre.  And  I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  etc.,  etc., 

SIDNEY  SMITH,  Captain  H.M.S.  Tigre. 

At  which  Bonaparte  snarled  profusely,  and,  having 
the  ability  to  be  very  little  in  little  things,  wrote  a  pet- 
tish answer.  Whereof  this  is  a  precise  copy,  official 
heading  and  all: 

FRENCH  REPUBLIC. 
LIBERTY.  E  QUALITY. 

Headquarters — Before  St.  Jean  d' Acre,  10th  Floreal, 
7th  year  of  the  French  Republic  one  and  indivisible. 
BONAPARTE,   General-in-Chief  of   the  Army  of  the 

East, 

To  CAPTAIN  SMITH,  H.M.S.  Tigre— 
I   desire   Captain   Smith   to   request   His   Britannic 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       291 

Majesty  to  send  against  me  a  general  whom  it  will  be 
an  honour  to  conquer. 

BONAPARTE. 

Thereafter,  he  bade  Lannes  advance  to  the  assault 
before  the  English  could  get  their  captured  guns  in 
position.  Every  field-gun  Bonaparte  had  thundered  its 
best  against  the  age-worn  bastions  of  Acre.  The 
scarred  swarthy  veterans  of  Lannes'  division  dashed 
up  to  the  dry  moat  and  down  into  it,  and  struggled  up 
the  crumbling  walls  beyond.  But  the  Albanian  riflemen 
within  poured  down  a  steady  fire,  and  in  the  crest  of  the 
wall  the  Turks  stood  desperate  at  bay  with  pike  and 
scimitar.  The  English  frigates  weighed,  and  running 
close  in  upon  the  shallows,  poured  a  hail  of  death  upon 
the  storming  party.  Thrice  Lannes  led  his  men  up  the 
ramparts.  Thrice  they  were  beaten  back  with  heavy 
slaughter. 

Bonaparte,  who  had  watched  the  fight  with  calm 
eyes,  rode  down  to  embrace  Lannes  as  a  hero,  and  bid 
him  waste  no  more  men.  The  panting,  bleeding  sol- 
diers thronged  round  Bonaparte's  horse  and  begged 
him  let  them  tempt  death  again.  He  had  a  few 
fine  sentences  for  them,  but  he  bade  them  back  to 
camp.  He  could  spend  life  ruthlessly,  but  he  never 
wasted. 

That  night  came  another  flag  of  truce,  and  another 
letter  from  Captain  Sidney  Smith.  Bonaparte  read, 
and  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  Captain  Sidney 
Smith,  a  gentleman  who  believed  in  his  own  importance, 
had  taken  Bonaparte's  sneer  to  heart,  and  sent  him  a 
furious  challenge  to  a  duel. 

"Bourrienne,"  said  Bonaparte  to  his  secretary,  "tell 


292  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

the  gentleman  Bonaparte  will  fight  a  duel  when  the 
English  send  him  a  Marlborough." 

But  Captain  Sidney  Smith,  if  he  lacked  a  sense  of 
humour  where  himself  was  concerned,  lacked  nothing 
else  to  make  him  a  dangerous  foe,  which,  with  surprise 
and  wrath,  Bonaparte  discovered. 

Bonaparte  plied  every  device  of  war  against  the 
town.  His  own  siege-guns  mocked  at  him  from  the 
ramparts,  but  the  old  crumbling  emplacements  would 
scarce  bear  the  shock  of  firing,  and  from  the  guns  he 
had  little  to  fear.  Old  Caffarelli  planned  and  dug  a 
mine  beneath  the  main  gate  and  blew  the  gate  to 
heaven.  Kleber  stormed  through  the  breach  with  his 
grenadiers,  and  at  the  first  rush  drove  the  Turks  before 
him.  But  Captain  Sidney  Smith  raged  furiously,  and 
rallied  his  Turks  and  brought  them  to  fight  hand  to 
hand  till  he  got  a  company  of  Albanian  riflemen  up 
on  the  roofs,  and  their  fire  mowed  the  French  down. 
Kleber  fell  back  from  the  town,  leaving  half  of  his  men 
inside.  Before  the  next  dawn  broke  Captain  Sidney 
Smith  had  the  breach  built  up  again.  By  the  harbour 
gate  Bonaparte  planned  an  assault.  Captain  Sidney 
Smith  put  carronades  from  his  frigates  aboard  light 
craft,  and  ran  them  close  in-shore  and  enfiladed  the 
storming  party  and  blew  the  heart  out  of  it. 

St.  Jean  d'Acre  had  slain  many  a  man.  More  and 
daily  more  were  dying  of  fever,  borne  on  the  poisonous 
vapours  of  the  marsh  by  the  Nahr  Na'amen. 

But  Bonaparte,  grim-mouthed,  growled  to  Caff arelli : 
"If  the  place  be  fastened  with  chains  to  heaven,  still  I 
will  have  it." 

"I  have  little  to  do  with  heaven,"  quoth  Cafferelli. 
"My  works  are  mostly  with  earth."  And  he  dug 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       293 

another  mine  by  the  north-eastern  tower.  But  that 
was  countermined,  and  Caffarelli  and  a  hundred  men 
were  buried  in  it. 

That  night  Bonaparte  received  a  polite  note  from 
Captain  Sidney  Smith,  requesting  him  to  dig  no  more 
mines,  as  the  good  folk  of  Acre  had  work  enough  to 
provide  funerals  for  his  dead,  and  to  bury  the  living 
also  was  a  bore. 

It  was  that  night  that  Achilles  of  Ceos  came.  Bona- 
parte was  in  his  tent  with  Berthier  and  Marmont  when 
Jean  Dortan  came  in.  "There  is  a  party  at  the  out- 
posts above  the  bay,"  he  announced;  and  held  out  to 
Bonaparte  a  paper  whereon  was  written  in  a  stiff  hand, 
"Achilles  of  Ceos  has  matter  for  Bonaparte  of  France." 

"Here  is  an  original,"  said  Bonaparte.  "What  is 
he  like,  Jean?" 

"An  assassin,"  quoth  Jean  Dortan. 

"An  original  assassin  should  be  amazing.  Let  us 
see  him,  Jean." 

Jean  Dortan  grunted  disapproval.  He  never  hid  his 
opinions.  But  he  usually  obeyed — and  now  he  went  out 
and  dispatched  an  orderly.  He  came  back  to  stand 
behind  Bonaparte's  chair,  his  arms  crossed  over  his 
great  chest.  Bonaparte  leant  back,  smiled  at  him,  and 
nodded  to  Marmont.  "My  nurse  does  not  trust  me 
much  alone,  you  see." 

"I  think  your  life  is  of  some  value.  You  don't.  I 
dare  say  you  are  right,"  quoth  Jean  Dortan. 

There  came  into  the  tent  a  man  of  middle  size  wear- 
ing the  kilts  of  the  Greek  islanders.  His  face  was 
nearly  covered  in  crisp  brown  curls.  Else  it  was  hand- 
some, and  his  black  eyes  sparkled  strangely. 

Over  his  purple  tunic  he  wore  a  girdle  of  gold,  and 


294 


in  that  were  thrust  a  pair  of  silver-butted  pistols. 
There  was  a  short  straight  sword  at  his  side. 

His  keen  black  eyes  picked  out  Bonaparte  at  once 
and  considered  him  deliberately.  "You  are  as  little  as 
I  thought  you  were,"  he  pronounced.  "But  you  have 
the  eye."  He  spoke  French  correctly  enough,  with  a 
slurred  accent. 

"What  are  you,  Monsieur  Achilles?"  Bonaparte 
inquired. 

"The  same  as  yourself,"  quoth  Achilles  of  Ceos. 
"Pirate,  master  of  slaves." 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Unbidden,  Achilles  of  Ceos  sat  himself  down.  "I  am 
a  sea  pirate.  You  are  a  land  pirate.  Bonaparte  has 
more  fame  than  Achilles,  but  I  think  Achilles  has  more 
wealth." 

Bonaparte  leant  back  in  his  chair.  The  Greek's 
bluffness  pleased  him.  "Wealth  is  M.  Achilles'  aim  in 
this  world?" 

"No  more  than  your  own.  Pleasure  and  power 
Achilles  of  Ceos  seeks,  like  all  healthy  men.  What  else 
do  you  want?" 

"Have  you  heard  of  glory  in  Ceos?" 

"Glory  ?  A  pleasure — and  a  pleasure  that  soon  sates 
you.  I  wanted  glory  when  I  was  a  boy.  You  will 
grow  up  too,  Bonaparte.  Pleasures  that  last  and 
power  that  lasts — those  are  a  man's  aim." 

"What  pleasures  last?" 

"Children.  Children  that  in  their  children  make 
a  man  immortal.  But  you  have  not  any,  Bona- 
parte." 

Achilles  of  Ceos  had  shot  his  shaft  clear  between  the 
joints  of  the  armour.  Bonaparte's  sallow  face  dark- 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       295 

ened.     "Fellow!"  he  cried  harshly,  "did  you  come  to 
preach  sermons?" 

"No.    To  help  you,  Bonaparte." 

Bonaparte  laughed.     "You  are  modest." 

"I  am  not  such  a  fool.    I  know  what  I  can  do." 

"What  is  it?" 

Achilles  of  Ceos  looked  at  Marmont  and  Berthier. 
"It  is  for  your  own  ear,  Bonaparte." 

"I  have  no  secrets  from  my  friends." 

"But  I  have,"  quoth  Achilles  of  Ceos.  "To  your 
own  ear  or  not  at  all.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  are  afraid  you 
may  have  guards  all  round  the  tent,  but  I  speak  to  you 
alone." 

Bonaparte  stared  at  him  a  moment.  "Mark  you, 
my  friend,  I'll  not  promise  to  keep  your  secret  secret 
when  I've  heard  it." 

"If  you  like  to  blab  your  own  affairs  you  may.  Hear 
first  and  judge  if  it  is  wise." 

"Give  me  leave,  Marmont,"  said  Bonaparte.  "Ber- 
thier, my  friend "  and  the  two  rose  and  departed. 

Their  gait  was  contemptuous.  Jean  Dortan  showed 
no  intention  of  going.  "This,"  said  Bonaparte,  lean- 
ing back  and  gripping  the  huge  arm,  "this  is  more 
faithful  to  me  than  I  am  myself." 

"You  know  your  slaves  best,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos. 
"Now,  Bonaparte.  You  are  a  great  man.  You  will 
be  greater.  I  admire  you.  I  am  willing  to  help  you 
if  your  greatness  is  one  with  mine." 

"I  doubt  I  could  never  aspire  to  that,  M.  Achilles," 
said  Bonaparte. 

"You  will  always  be  making  fine  answers.  It  is 
showy.  In  fact,  you  are  showy,  Bonaparte.  That 
belittles  you.  Now,  you  are  here  with  your  slaves  to 


296  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

conquer  the  lands  of  the  East.  It  is  a  great  plan.  I 
approve  it.  But  you  are  far  enough  from  doing  the 
deed.  You  are  held  here  before  this  mud-hole  of  a 
town.  Who  holds  you?  You  know.  It  is  not  the 
Turks.  (Achilles  spat.)  It  is  not  their  pacha  Gez- 
zar.  (Achilles  spat  again.)  It  is  the  Englishman, 
the  Captain  Smith.  If  he  were  away  you  might  be 
into  the  treasures  of  Acre  to-morrow.  Then — then 
there  is  nothing  else  to  stop  you.  Bonaparte,  you  are 
Emperor  of  the  East  if  you  will  be  linked  with  Achilles 
of  Ceos." 

"And  equally  if  I  will  not,  my  dear  M.  Achilles." 

"You  think  so?  While  the  Captain  Smith  is  inside 
Acre,  are  you  likely  to  get  in?  Your  guns,  where  are 
they  ?  Your  engineer,  where  is  he  ?  How  many  of  your 
slaves  has  the  Captain  Smith  killed,  Bonaparte?  And 
every  day  a  hundred  more  fall  sick.  How  much  longer 
dare  you  wait  before  Acre  ?  Will  you  wait  with  a  dead 
army?  In  fact,  Bonaparte,  without  Achilles  of  Ceos 
you  are  beaten.  But  I  will  help  you.  I  will  make  an 
end  of  the  Captain  Smith."  .  .  . 

"I  was  told  you  were  an  assassin,"  Bonaparte 
sneered. 

"That  also  when  it  pays,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos. 
"But  I  do  not  think  of  killing  the  Captain  Smith.  I 
would  take  him  and  sell  him  for  a  slave.  He  would  fetch 
his  price  at  Smyrna.  A  fine  buffoon  he  would  be ;  it  is 
so  easy  to  make  him  rage.  Well,  Bonaparte,  the  Cap- 
tain Smith  sailing  away  for  a  slave  market — is  that 
worth  anything?" 

Bonaparte  drummed  lightly  with  his  fingers  on  the 
table.  "You  will  understand,  M.  Achilles,  that  I  hear 
nothing  of  such  a  plan,  because  I  war  like  a  gentleman." 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       297 

"That  is  not  possible,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos.  "But 
I  understand  you.  You  like  to  pretend,  you  men  of  the 
West.  Well,  suppose  Providence  were  to  take  away 
the  Captain  Smith  to  Smyrna  market,  would  Bona- 
parte be  willing  to  unite  with — Providence?" 

"That  is  a  strange  word  you  are  so  fond  of,  M. 
Achilles — 'unite.' " 

"You  men  of  the  West  have  no  wits.  Unite — what 
could  it  mean  ?  It  means  this :  let  my  blood  run  with 
yours  in  the  veins  of  your  children." 

"The  devil!"  The  exclamation  was  forced  from 
Bonaparte's  not  easily  startled  lips. 

"Why  invoke  him?"  said  Achilles  coolly.  "We  are 
enough  by  ourselves.  Look  you,  Bonaparte,  it  is  quite 
simple.  A  man  has  nothing  in  life  greater  than  his 
children.  In  them  he  proves  his  power  to  those  that 
never  knew  him.  In  them  he  is  immortal.  I  have  a 
daughter  of  age  to  wed.  I  want  her  children  to  be 
as  great  as  I  am.  Save  myself,  I  have  heard  of  no 
greater  man  than  you,  Bonaparte.  Do  you  wed  Iris, 
and  I  will  help  you  with  all  my  power.  Iris  is  worthy 
of  me — worthy,  then,  of  you.  She  has  heard  of  your 
deeds  and  is  ready  to  honour  you  as  much  as  a  man 
needs.  She  loves  heroes.  Of  course,  I  am  her  father. 
Wed  her,  then,  and  our  children  shall  hold  the  throne 
of  the  East.  Who  knows?  Of  the  world!" 

"It  is  flattering,  M.  Achilles.    But  I  am  wed  already." 

"To  a  barren  wife,"  said  Achilles  coolly.  Bona- 
parte's brow  darkened  and  lowered.  "Well,  kill  her. 
Or  put  her  away.  Why  not  ?  You  are  not  Christians 
in  France  now.  I  do  not  care  what  you  do  with  her. 
Only  mark  this,  I  will  have  you  wed  Iris  as  I  wed  her 
mother — you  shall  own  her  for  wife  before  all  your 


298  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

captains  ere  I  take  the  Captain  Smith  away  from 
Acre.  So  it  shall  be,  Bonaparte.  I  will  capture  the 
Captain  Smith.  I  will  put  him  aboard  my  felucca. 
Then  I  will  come  ashore  and  see  you  take  Iris  for 
wife.  Do  so — and  it  is  well.  I  send  him  off  to  Smyrna. 
I  am  your  ally  in  blood  always.  Do  not  so — I  give  the 
Captain  back  to  the  Turk  to  fight  you,  and  I  fight  on 
his  side." 

"You  are  very  lucid,  M.  Achilles,"  said  Bonaparte, 
and  set  the  trenchant  light  of  his  grey  eyes  on  the 
Greek's  face.  .  .  .  His  crafty  Corsican  brain  consid- 
ered the  affair.  The  Greek  was  right  enough.  Cap- 
tain Smith  was  the  heart  of  the  defence.  Without  him 
Acre  would  fall  as  easily  as  Alexandria  or  Jaffa.  .  .  . 
To  be  rid  of  him  would  be  worth  the  world.  .  .  .  The 
price  mattered  nothing.  The  girl  mattered  nothing. 
He  could  call  her  wife  before  Marmont  and  Berthier 
and  the  rest,  and  they  would  laugh  at  the  jest  with 
him.  .  .  .  But  this  Greek  pirate,  her  father,  was  he  a 
man  of  deeds  or  words?  .  .  .  Bonaparte  was  a  con- 
noisseur of  men.  "Well,  Achilles,  my  friend,"  said  he, 
"am  I  to  see  the  lady  before  I  wed  her?" 

"This  hour,  if  you  will,  my  son,"  quoth  Achilles  of 
Ceos. 

"You  are  certainly  expeditious,"  Bonaparte  agreed. 
"But  wait.  Will  you  tell  me  what  there  is  to  prevent 
you  from  going  now  to  Captain  Smith  and  blabbing 
all  this  fine  plan  to  him  for  a  price?" 

"If  I  were  a  man  of  the  West,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos, 
"I  should  talk  about  honour,  and  go  and  be  a  traitor. 
I  have  no  honour,  Bonaparte.  But  I  will  give  you  a 
pledge.  I  will  leave  Iris  in  your  camp  as  hostage." 

"It  would  give  us  the  savour  of  a  wooing,"  said  Bona- 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE      299 

parte.  "Though  whether  she  is  to  do  the  wooing,  or  I, 
I  do  not  clearly  know." 

"Bonaparte,  my  son,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos,  "do  not 
jest  about  my  daughter." 

"I  am  sure  she  is  no  jesting  matter,"  Bonaparte 
agreed.  "Well,  let  me  see  her.  Conduct  M.  Achilles, 
Jean." 

Jean  Dortan,  with  a  face  expressive  of  deep  disgust, 
led  Achilles  of  Ceos  out. 

They  brought  back  a  girl  dressed  like  her  father  in 
short  full  kilts,  a  slim  girl  of  fine  Athenian  features 
and  great  dark  eyes.  Her  hair  hung  down  in  two 
heavy  braids  of  glossy  black.  She  looked  at  Bona- 
parte with  a  man's  full  frank  gaze,  looked  long  .  .  . 
then  "My  lord  is  little,"  she  said  quietly,  "but  of  a  great 
soul.  I  would  have  it  so." 

"Do  not  love  me  too  madly,"  said  Bonaparte,  with  a 
sneer. 

"You  will  be  loved,  my  son,  as  you  deserve.  Every 
man  is,  at  the  last,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos.  "Iris !  You 
understand?  You  are  a  while " 

The  quaint  gravity  of  the  girl's  face  broke  in  a 
delicious  smile.  "To  be  hostage  for  my  father  with 
my  lord — it  is  so  easy,  it  is  so  pleasant." 

"A  bientot,  Bonaparte,  my  son.  Iris,  remember 
that  you  are  the  daughter  of  Achilles  of  Ceos."  And 
Achilles  of  Ceos  was  gone  to  the  night. 

Bonaparte  found  the  girl  looking  at  him  again  with 
frank  wide  eyes.  "If  it  please  my  lord,"  she  said  quietly, 
"and  if  I  find  favour  in  the  sight  of  my  lord,  I  will  be 
the  most  faithful  of  his  slaves." 

"Go  to  bed,"  growled  Bonaparte,  and  turned  to  Jean 
Dortan.  "Jean,  let  her  have  Bourrienjie's  tent.  See 


300  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

that  she  has  all  she  needs.  Bid  Berthier  put  a  sentry 
over  her ;  go." 

"I  give  you  good-night,  my  lord,"  said  the  girl 
gently. 

Bonaparte  grunted. 

A  while  after  Jean  Dortan  came  back.  With  an  air 
of  high  disapproval  he  began  the  last  of  his  daily  tasks 
— to  make  Bonaparte's  papers  tidy.  "Well?"  Bona- 
parte inquired. 

"It  is  not  well,"  Jean  Dortan  grunted.  "It  is  not 
fair.  She  means  it." 

Bonaparte  laughed. 

"When  you  laugh  you  are  most  like  a  devil,"  said 
Jean  Dortan. 

Bonaparte  strode  out  of  the  tent.  In  the  black  dome 
of  the  Syrian  night  the  moon  hung  full  and  golden. 
Violet  masses  with  a  crest  of  opal,  the  mountains  stood 
about  him,  and  below,  like  a  cloud  of  silver  dust,  the 
death  mist  hid  the  river.  ...  In  the  stillness  Bona- 
parte considered  life,  and  the  end  of  life.  .  .  .  He  was 
a  childless  man.  His  soul  and  the  force  of  it  had  no 
heirs.  Alone  in  life,  he  must  die  alone,  and  body  and 
soul  pass  barren  into  nothingness.  But  he  could  seek 
no  new  life  in  Josephine's  stead.  He  had  known  love 
once.  He  had  given  all  to  a  fool.  No  better  cure  of 
love  than  that.  He  would  not  be  able  to  love  again. 
He  was  glad  of  it — till  he  remembered  his  mother,  the 
grave-eyed  woman,  with  passion  and  will  like  his  own. 
.  .  .  But,  more  than  the  love  of  a  woman,  he  needed 
the  love  of  men.  Not  their  cheers,  their  praise,  their 
worship:  all  that  he  had  at  call,  and  all  of  it  left  him 
hungry.  What  man  of  all  the  myriads  who  wondered 
and  trembled  and  adored  had  a  friend's  love  of  him?, 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE      301 

There  might  be  one,  the  bluff  Dauphiny  blacksmith 
who  had  known  him  from  a  lad,  Jean  Dortan.  He 
needed  Jean  Dortan  more  than  Jean  Dortan  ever  knew. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  force  in  the  world  to  stand  against 
him.  He  might  beat  down  all,  and  rule  all,  and  hold 
all  men  the  slaves  of  his  will.  So  he  would  stand  over 
a  conquered  world,  miserable  in  loneliness.  .  .  .  How 
to  make  men  give  more  than  fear — that  was  the  riddle 
of  his  life.  And  while  he  strove  for  the  answer  in  vain, 
he  saw  the  moon  rise  high  over  Galilee.  .  .  . 

From  his  first  sleep  he  was  woke  to  hear  that  an 
army  of  Turks  was  coming  upon  him  by  the  great  road 
past  Nazareth.  He  bade  Kleber  march  at  dawn  to 
meet  them.  At  dawn  he  was  up  to  see  the  division 
away.  When  he  came  back  to  his  tent  he  found  the 
Greek  girl  there  already. 

"I  give  you  good-morning,  my  lord." 

Bonaparte  was  in  a  good  temper.  His  soldiers  had 
been  cheering  him.  He  found  her  old-fashioned  French 
pleasing,  and  her  voice  musical.  He  patted  her  shoul- 
der. "Well,  child,  and  what  is  your  need?" 

"My  need  is  to  serve  you,  my  lord." 

"There  is  no  happiness  in  serving,  Iris." 

Iris  laughed  happily.  "That  is  the  wisdom  of  men, 
my  lord." 

"You  like  to  have  no  will  of  your  own,  child?" 

"My  will  is  to  do  your  will,  my  lord.  And  that  is 
my  life." 

"A  slave's  life,  Iris." 

Again  Iris  laughed.  "You  are  in  fulness  a  man,  my 
lord.  Even  my  father  is  not  more.  That  is  why  I 
desire  to  serve  you." 

"There  is  one  wife  serves  me  already." 


SOS  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Iris  was  slightly  interested.  Her  deep  dark  eyes 
opened  wider.  "Truly,  my  lord?  Why  is  she  not 
here?" 

Bonaparte  gave  a  wry  smile.  The  notion  of  Joseph- 
ine giving  her  luxurious  self  the  pain  of  even  one  night 
under  canvas  was  amusing.  "She  does  not  love  war," 
he  explained.  "She  likes  to  stay  at  home." 

"I  would  have  her  whipped!"  Iris  cried.  "Indeed, 
my  lord,  but  what  is  she  for,  there  at  home?" 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  Bonaparte  muttered,  half  to 
himself.  Then  aloud:  "It  is  not  the  fashion  for  wives 
in  France  to  go  to  war." 

"There  will  be  a  new  fashion  when  I  am  your  wife, 
my  lord,"  said  Iris,  with  entire  composure. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  the  fine  grave  face,  frank  as  a 
man's  and  bold,  those  eyes  dark  with  the  mystery  of 
womanhood.  "You  want  to  be  my  wife,  Iris?" 

"Surely,  my  lord."  She  smiled  at  him.  "What 
woman  would  not  ?  You  are  of  such  power.  Your  soul 
is  so  manly.  Indeed,  I  am  blessed  among  women.  And 
I  will  give  you  all  that  woman  can,  my  lord.  Only 
trust  me." 

Bonaparte  turned  sharply  away.  It  stung,  that 
"only  trust  me."  "Get  to  your  own  tent,"  he  growled, 
and  she  went  out  obediently.  He  crushed  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes  and  strode  out. 

******* 

It  was  close  on  noon  when  a  lancer  came  thundering 
into  camp  to  tell  that  the  Turks  were  thirty  thousand, 
and  Kleber  near  overwhelmed.  In  half  an  hour  Bona- 
parte had  another  division  on  march.  He  stood  by 
the  door  of  hia  tent  giving  curt  orders  to  Marmont2 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       303 

who  had  a  map  in  his  hand.  Then  Marmont  mounted 
and  rode  off  to  take  a  battery  of  galloper  guns,  and  a 
regiment  of  cuirassiers  by  another  road.  Bonaparte 
mounted  his  white  charger,  and  followed  the  main  body. 

Iris  watched  him  with  glowing  eyes.  Then  she  strode 
out  of  her  tent  looking  all  ways  for  a  horse.  She  found 
Jean  Dortan  saddling  his  big-boned  roan.  "One  for 
me  too,"  she  said  simply. 

"And  what  would  you  be  after,  mademoiselle?" 

"I  want  to  follow  my  lord.  Oh,  I  see.  There!" 
Between  a  gap  of  the  tents  she  saw  the  officers'  horse 
lines.  Before  Jean  Dortan,  hauling  his  reluctant  steed 
after  him,  had  caught  her  up,  she  had  a  horse  free  of 
heel  ropes  and  bridled,  and  was  astride  his  bare  back 
and  away.  "Name  of  a  little  dog!"  Jean  Dortan 
exclaimed,  and  hurriedly  fixed  girths  and  lumbered 
after  her. 

She  was  wholly  at  her  ease  without  a  saddle;  she 
laughed  back  at  him,  and  for  a  while  would  not  let 
him  catch  her.  When  he  did  get  level,  "Fie,  mademoi- 
selle!" says  he,  "this  is  against  all  order.  You  must 
back." 

"I  am  going  to  see  my  lord  lead  the  fight,"  said  Iris 
calmly. 

Jean  Dortan  looked  at  the  eager  face  with  some 
admiration.  Except  for  force — and  he  was  not  the 
man  to  use  force  on  a  girl — there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  let  her  go  on.  "Promise  you  will  not  run  into 
danger,"  he  insisted. 

"Indeed  I  would  not  so  wrong  my  lord,"  Iris  cried. 

It  was  Jean  Dortan's  custom  to  ride  by  Bonaparte's 
side  in  battle,  his  guard.  But  now  he  stayed  with 
Iris.  So  he  seemed  to  be  guarding  Bonaparte's  hon- 


304-  THE  GOD  01!  CLAY 

our.  Together  they  followed  the  cloud  of  dust  east- 
ward across  the  plain,  sparing  their  horses,  drawing 
slowly  nearer.  Jean  Dortan  dropped  behind  her  a  lit- 
tle. While  he  watched  her  lithe  grace  he  was  puzzling 
his  brain.  "I  wish  I  knew  what  to  wish,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

Over  the  green  wheatfields  they  went  till  the  moun- 
tains were  near  and,  above  them,  amid  bare  rock,  pine 
and  wild  olive  were  dark  against  the  sky.  Then  by  a 
pass  in  the  crags  that  keep  ward  over  Nazareth,  and 
out  through  purple  thistle  and  golden  broom  and 
honeysuckle  and  white  convolvulus  bells,  they  came  to 
look  over  the  plain  where  the  mass  of  Tabor  rises 
lonely  to  the  sky,  where  Barak  and  the  highlanders  of 
Galilee  smote  down  Sisera's  host. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  din  of  battle.  A  cloud 
of  wild  soldiery  encompassed  Kleber's  stubborn  regi- 
ments, twelve  men  to  one,  and  stormed  at  them 
charge  upon  charge.  Bonaparte's  division  had  halted 
far  off.  Jean  Dortan  gripped  Iris's  bridle  and  they 
waited  on  the  high  ground  watching.  Bonaparte's 
division  broke  from  column  of  route  into  three  squares 
and  marched  on  swiftly.  Upon  them  rushed  the 
Turkish  horsemen.  They  halted  and  shattered  the 
charge  with  volleys,  and  marched  on  again.  Now 
all  the  Turkish  army  drew  away  from  Kleber  to 
hurl  itself  on  Bonaparte's  squares.  The  three  squares 
were  flung  together,  and  though  it  bore  the  shock 
of  a  force  six  times  its  own,  that  strong  fence  of 
steel  stood  fast.  While  the  Turks  drew  back  in  dis- 
order Kleber  coming  upon  their  flank  smote  them 
with  volley  after  volley.  It  was  enough.  They  fled, 
the  whole  great  army  fled  from  the  few,  fled  disorderly 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       305 

to  the  mountains.  But  as  they  surged  up  the  slopes 
the  valley  mouths  vomited  flame.  Marmont  had  been 
in  time.  His  guns  beat  them  back,  and,  as  they  fled 
again,  he  hurled  cuirassiers  at  them.  The  while,  Bona- 
parte and  Kleber  had  closed  upon  their  rear,  and, 
hemmed  about  with  a  ring  of  fire  while  heavy  mailed 
horsemen  raged  in  the  midst,  that  army  was  hammered 
to  powder.  When  the  sun  lay  close  upon  the  western 
horizon  there  was  but  one  army  on  the  plain  of 
Esdraelon.  Bonaparte  had  crushed  thirty  thousand 
men  with  five  thousand.  They  began  to  gather  the 
French  wounded — there  were  but  few — and  he  and  his 
staff  rode  off  the  field. 

Then  Iris  urged  her  horse  forward  and  galloped  to 
his  side,  crying  out,  "My  lord,  my  lord,  how  great  you 
are!"  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  braids  of  hair 
floated  behind  her. 

Some  of  Bonaparte's  officers  chuckled.  Bonaparte 
turned  in  his  saddle.  "Some  gentleman  has  the  good 
fortune  to  be  amused,"  he  said  ominously.  "I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  the  jest."  No  gentleman  volunteered  to 
explain. 

Then  he  rode  forward  a  little  with  her.  "You  should 
not  have  come,  child,"  he  said  gently  enough.  Her 
eyes  grew  sad.  "May  I  not  see  your  great  deeds  ever, 
my  lord?"  she  asked  anxiously.  "Indeed,  my  lord,  they 
are  my  glory." 

Bonaparte  looked  at  her,  and  a  strange  melancholy 
transformed  his  face.  .  .  .  He  was  at  a  loss  for  words. 
.  .  .  "Ride  on,  child,"  he  muttered.  Obediently  she 
urged  her  horse  ahead.  Bonaparte  followed  slowly, 
his  chin  on  his  breast.  .  .  .  He  was  aware  of  Jean 
Dortan  beside  him. 


306  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Why  did  you  let  her  come?"  he  growled. 

Jean  Dorian  shrugged.  "What  to  do?  She  means 
it  very  much,"  said  he. 

Bonaparte  shifted  in  his  saddle.  It  was  the  sum  of 
his  own  thought.  "What  to  do?  She  means  it  very 
much."  Why,  cheat  her  as  he  had  meant  to  cheat  her. 
What  matter  more  for  breaking  her  than  for  any  one 
of  the  thousands  who  were  crushed  to  make  a  path  to 
power?  But  she  appealed  strangely.  "What  to  do?" 
He  was  yearning  for  the  impossible — that  she  had 
come  to  his  life  while  he  could  welcome  her. 

That  night  they  rested  in  the  Convent  of  Nazareth, 
and  his  officers  dared  not  laugh  when  the  prior  told 
them  the  story  of  the  Annunciation,  for  Bonaparte  was 
strangely  grave. 

But  the  victory  of  a  stricken  field  helped  him  nothing 
to  win  Acre.  Still  the  tottering  walls  of  "the  mud-hole" 
mocked  him.  Still  Captain  Sidney  Smith  countermined 
his  mines  and  foiled  his  assaults.  The  hot-headed  bom- 
bastic sailor  had  a  brain  most  resourceful  and  a  will 
hard  as  Napoleon's  own.  "By  all  the  rules  of  war,"  he 
wrote  to  my  Lord  Nelson,  "this  town  is  not  and  never 
has  been  defensible.  Nevertheless,  it  can  and  shall  be 
defended."  He  fought  with  all  the  engines  of  war  of 
all  the  ages.  He  had  blazing  pitch  for  a  storming 
party,  and  stink-pots,  and  when  Bonaparte's  engineers 
mined  beneath  his  northern  bastion  he  smoked  them 
out  with  burning  sulphur. 

Bonaparte  was  in  sore  straits.  Hundreds  of  his  lit- 
tle army  had  fallen  vainly  about  the  walls,  and  the 
pestilence  of  the  marsh  had  slain  more  than  shot  and 
steel,  and  every  day  the  death-roll  was  heavier.  His 
men  began  to  murmur.  How  many  more  must  die  for 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       307 

the  mud-hole's  sake?  And  powder  was  failing,  and 
food.  He  saw  defeat  near,  and  strove  with  desperate 
energy  for  the  honour  of  his  fame,  for  his  hope  of 
power.  But  he  could  not  make  powder  of  the  air,  nor 
food,  and  again  and  again  when  he  came  back  to  his 
tent  at  dusk  he  was  near  despair. 

There  was  Iris.  She  wasted  quaint  womanly  care 
upon  his  tent.  She  had  always  a  glad  smile  for  him 
and  brave  confident  words  if  he  chose  to  talk.  She 
sat  with  him  of  nights,  well  content  to  be  silent  if  he 
were  silent,  happy  in  his  mere  presence.  She  was 
calmly  sure  of  her  place.  More  than  once  Bonaparte 
looked  up  from  his  maps  and  figures  to  consider  her 
with  cold  judicial  eyes.  Surely  she  was  all  of  a  wife 
that  a  man  need  want.  With  sardonic  smile  he  com- 
pared her  wise  all-giving  love  to  the  fribble  Josephine. 
But  he  wanted  one  no  more  than  the  other.  For  Iris 
he  had  a  decent  brotherly  affection.  Well!  It  would 
serve.  It  was  enough  to  cheat  her  with. 

To  cheat  her  was  necessary.  Achilles  of  Ceos  was 
not  the  man  to  let  him  off  his  bargain.  Achilles  of 
Ceos  would  never  take  Sidney  Smith  away  without  see- 
ing Iris  in  Bonaparte's  arms.  Unless  Sidney  Smith 
were  removed,  and  quickly,  Bonaparte  had  no  hope  of 
taking  Acre.  In  the  interests  of  his  fame,  it  was  plainly 
necessary  to  cheat  the  girl.  So  he  resolved  to  take 
her  to  wife  for  a  while.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  might  keep 
her.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  be  rid  of  Josephine. 
A  divorce  or  so  was  little  matter  in  France.  .  .  .  The 
child  was  well  enough.  He  might  sham  love  to  the 
end.  She  deserved  some  consideration. 

Achilles  of  Ceos  had  not  put  himself  in  a  hurry.  He 
thought  it  desirable  that  Bonaparte  should  discover 


308  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

how  very  sorely  he  needed  the  help  of  Achilles  of  Ceos. 
The  mere  problem  of  removing  Captain  Sidney  Smith 
presented  no  great  difficulty  to  Achilles'  mind.  He 
had,  I  suppose,  more  experience  in  kidnapping  than 
any  man  of  his  age.  His  method  on  this  occasion  was 
somewhat  ingenious.  One  dark  night,  when  Captain 
Sidney  Smith's  galley  was  taking  him  out  to  his  ship, 
Achilles  of  Ceos,  in  a  well-manned  pinnace,  was  rowing 
stroke  for  stroke  with  the  English,  hardly  an  oar's 
length  away.  A  yawl  loomed  up  in  the  dark  and, 
infamously  handled,  ran  the  galley  down.  She  did  not 
wait  to  save  the  crew,  but  put  her  helm  up  and  stood 
out  to  sea,  pursued  by  spluttering  English  execrations. 
Achilles  of  Ceos  was  much  more  charitable.  The  galley 
had  hardly  sunk  before  his  boat  was  amid  the  swim- 
ming, swearing  English.  He  had  Captain  Sidney 
Smith  by  the  collar,  he  handed  him  inboard  with  one 
skilful  effort,  and  if  it  happened  that  Captain  Smith 
hit  a  stretcher  with  his  temple  and  lost  his  senses  that 
was  plainly  no  fault  of  Achilles  the  humane.  Captain 
Sidney  Smith  was  thrust  swiftly  forward  and  hidden 
under  a  tarpaulin  while  Achilles  of  Ceos  continued  to 
rescue  the  perishing.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  the 
whole  crew  in  his  stern-sheets. 

Then  his  anxiety  in  broken  English  to  know  if  all 
were  saved  was  edifying.  They  numbered  themselves, 
and  "God  bless  my  eyes,"  says  the  coxswain  to  the  mid- 
shipman of  the  boat,  "God  bless  my  eyes,  Mr.  Jenkins, 
where  be  the  captain?"  Captain  Sidney  Smith,  _who 
was  not  merely  insensible  but  by  this  time  neatly  bound 
and  gagged  beneath  his  tarpaulin,  naturally  did  not 
reply.  Mr.  Jenkins  only  replied  with  execrations. 

"How  is  it?"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos,  with  much  con- 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       809 

cern.  "It  is  your  capitaine,  is  it  not,  eh?"  They  told 
him  with  fervour,  and  fervently  abused  the  yawl. 
Achilles  of  Ceos,  whose  orders  that  craft  had  admirably 
obeyed,  sympathised  with  them  heartily.  He  was  first 
to  suggest  that  they  should  row  up  and  down  searching 
for  the  lost  captain,  and  he  had  lanterns  lit,  and  they 
rowed  to  and  fro  shouting.  Captain  Sidney  Smith, 
as  you  know,  had  the  best  reasons  for  not  answering. 

At  last,  "It's  blessed  good  of  you,"  said  the  mid- 
shipman unsteadily,  "but  it's  no  blessed  good." 

"Split  me,"  muttered  the  coxswain,  "split  me  if  I 
thought  he  would  drown,"  and  ended  with  something 
like  a  groan. 

Exhibiting  a  decent  appearance  of  sorrow,  Achilles 
of  Ceos  bade  his  men  row  on  to  Captain  Smith's  ship, 
and  there  he  put  his  rescued  English  on  board  and 
received  with  becoming  modesty  the  compliments  due 
to  their  saviour.  Then  he  went  off  to  his  own  felucca. 
Captain  Sidney  Smith — he  had  recovered  enough  to 
wriggle  desperately — was  hoisted  aboard,  deposited  in 
a  cabin  below  the  water  line  and  freed  from  his  tighter 
bonds  and  the  gag.  Of  his  remarks  upon  the  subject 
there  exists  unfortunately  no  record. 

Achilles  of  Ceos  slept  the  sleep  of  a  mind  conscious 
of  rectitude,  and  two  hours  after  dawn  went  ashore  to 
see  his  bargain  with  Bonaparte  performed. 

Bonaparte  was  reading  the  grim  figures  of  the  hos- 
pital reports  when  they  came  to  tell  him  that  Achilles 
of  Ceos  was  at  the  outposts.  ...  A  medley  of  feeling 
chased  through  him;  new  hope  .  .  .  and  exultation 
.  .  .  and  something  of  regret  for  Iris.  .  .  .  He  turned 
from  all  that  to  seize  the  chance  of  action.  Now  was 
the  time  to  break  his  bargain.  Since  Captain  Sidney 


310  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Smith  was  removed,  nothing  could  stay  the  storming  of 
the  town.  Off  went  Berthier  in  a  hurry  to  bid  Lannes 
make  ready  to  assault  by  the  north-eastern  tower. 
Achilles  of  Ceos  was  to  be  kept  waiting  at  the  outposts 
till  the  deed  was  done.  Then,  with  Acre  captured, 
Bonaparte  proposed  to  laugh  at  the  good  Achilles  of 
Ceos  and  pack  him  off  with  his  daughter.  So  the 
Corsican  saw  himself  getting  all  he  wanted  unencum- 
bered with  the  girl  whose  love  of  him  made  her  intoler- 
able. 

But  Achilles  of  Ceos  was  not  a  fool.  He  heard  the 
drums,  he  saw  the  grenadiers  running  to  the  muster, 
and  he  understood.  Out  of  his  kilt  he  pulled  a  tablet 
of  ivory  and  on  it  in  his  stiff  hand  wrote  this: 

BONAPARTE — 

Unless  I  am  aboard  my  felucca  again  in  an  hour 
my  slaves  will  put  the  captain  ashore  free.  Do  not 
forget,  my  son,  that  I  am 

ACHILLES  or  CEOS. 

An  orderly  brought  it  in  haste  to  Bonaparte's  tent. 
Bonaparte  read  it  and  the  muscles  stood  in  his  lean 
dark  face.  Achilles  of  Ceos  had  him  fast.  Glory,  ambi- 
tion, could  not  be  denied.  Acre  he  must  have.  There 
was  no  way  but  this.  .  .  .  Why  then,  God  help  her, 
he  would  do  it !  He  would  call  the  girl  wife,  and  cheat 
her  to  the  end.  .  .  .  He  stalked  to  and  fro  a  moment, 
his  brow  lowering,  his  close  lips  pale.  Jean  Dortan 
watched  him  in  some  surprise.  "Bid  the  Greek  here," 
he  growled  over  his  shoulder;  then  with  a  shout, 
"Swiftly,  man,  swiftly !" 

Achilles  of  Ceos  came.     "Bonaparte,  my  son,"  hq 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       311 

said  with  a  smile,  "I  fear  you  forget  that  Achilles  of 
Ceos  will  always  be  able  to  look  after  his  own." 

Bonaparte  met  his  eye.  "If  I  were  to  tell  you  that 
I  honour  your  daughter  too  much  to  love  her,  what 
would  you  say?" 

"I  should  laugh  at  you,"  said  Achilles  of  Ceos. 
"What,  Bonaparte!  If  I  make  you  Emperor  of  the 
World,  shall  I  let  my  daughter  be  less  than  empress? 
Not  I,  by  heaven !  Empress  she  shall  be,  and  the  chil- 
dren of  my  blood  the  world's  heirs.  Enough.  Time 
is  short  already.  Call  your  captains.  Own  her  for 
wife.  Else  you  lose  all." 

Bonaparte  flung  out  his  arm  in  a  gesture  of  some- 
thing like  despair.  "Else  you  lose  all !"  There  was  no 
other  way.  Ambition  drove.  "Bid  Berthier  come  and 
Marmont  and  Savary  and  Bessieres,"  he  cried  to  Jean 
Dortan,  then  turned  to  Achilles  again.  "Does  it  suf- 
fice? I  am  not  used  to  your  pirates'  weddings." 

"Let  pirates  wed  pirates'  way,"  quoth  Achilles,  with 
a  laugh.  "Where  is  the  child?" 

Bonaparte  pointed  without  a  word  to  Iris's  tent, 
and,  while  her  father  went  in,  strode  to  and  fro,  strik- 
ing his  heels  hard  upon  the  rock.  He  had  never  liked 
himself  less. 

Berthier  and  the  rest  came  and  stood  together  a  lit- 
tle apart  from  him,  oppressed  with  wonder.  But  no 
one  of  them  dared  speak.  The  gaunt  dark  brow  was  in 
torment. 

Achilles  of  Ceos  came  leading  his  daughter.  Her 
fine  pure  face  was  glorious  in  joy.  Bonaparte  stood 
suddenly  still  and  gazed,  his  grim  stark  misery  against 
her  gladness,  the  cold  grey  strength  of  his  eyes  against 
hers  and  their  deep  dark  mystery  of  love.  The  joy  of 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

her  faded.  "Is  my  lord  not  well?"  she  cried  anxiously, 
and  was  more  lovely  in  sorrow. 

"It  is  well  enough  with  me,"  growled  Bonaparte. 

"Captains  all!"  cried  Achilles  of  Ceos,  "Bonaparte 
bids  you  here  that  you  may  see  him  own  my  daughter 
for  wife.  Is  it  not  so,  Bonaparte,  my  son?" 

The  captains  crowded  together  and  nudged  and 
muttered,  but  "It  is  so,"  said  Bonaparte  in  a  low  voice. 

"Come,  then."  He  led  his  daughter  by  the  hand. 
"Before  my  captains  (say  it  after  me,  my  son) " 

And  Bonaparte  spoke :  "Before  my  captains  ...  I 
take  Iris  of  Ceos  ...  to  be  my  wife  .  .  .  till  death. 
.  .  .  That  is  my  will." 

Blundering  over  the  words,  Bonaparte  made  an  end. 
He  was  staring  down  at  the  ground.  Iris  put  out  her 
hand  and  took  his.  At  the  touch  of  her  he  looked 
up.  He  saw  the  wonder  of  her  deep  dark  eyes,  the 
gladness  of  her  soul.  .  .  .  He  who  was  cheating  her, 
he  who  cared  nothing  and  gave  nothing,  he  felt  her 
love's  generous  majesty.  .  .  .  He  knew  shame.  .  .  . 
The  giant  ambition  in  him  shrivelled.  .  .  .  Fortune 
and  glory  and  power,  all  that  might  go  down  the 
wind.  .  .  .  He  had  to  be  true.  .  .  .  He  flung  her  hand 
away,  he  started  back.  "No,  by  God,  I  cannot!"  he 
cried  hoarsely. 

Iris  gave  a  moan  of  pain. 

Achilles  of  Ceos,  crimson  with  fury,  yelled:  "Is  it 
you  shall  put  my  child  to  shame?"  and  sprang  at  him, 
drawing  his  sword. 

But  even  as  the  blow  fell,  for  Bonaparte  waited  it, 
Iris  darted  between,  and  the  point  was  home  in  her 
side.  By  that  Jean  Dortan  had  Achilles'  neck  in  his 
great  hands  and  jerked  the  man  back,  and  Berthier, 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       313 

running  up,  clove  his  head  to  the  eyes.  He  fell  down, 
and  breathed  no  more. 

Iris  lay  in  her  blood,  fainting  and  white.  One  mo- 
ment Bonaparte  gazed  down  at  her  with  hard,  unfalter- 
ing eyes.  Then  he  turned  away.  "Savary,  bid  Lannes 
to  the  assault  at  once.  Tell  him  to  spare  nothing.  I 
want  to  do  something  to-day.  I  will  see  who  will  fight 
for  me."  And  off  he  strode. 

Berthier  and  Marmont  and  Bessieres  looked  at  each 
other  strangely  as  they  followed. 

But  Jean  Dortan  gathered  Iris  in  his  arms  and  bore 
her  away  to  the  hospital. 

Lannes  was  ready  with  his  grenadiers.  Bonaparte 
rode  out  before  them,  and  his  bronze  voice  rang: 
"Soldiers !  To  you  I  commit  the  honour  of  France ! 
This  hour  you  must  plant  the  tricolour  on  the  walls 
of  Acre — our  tricolour  that  knows  not  how  to  retreat. 
Soldiers!  now  is  the  day  of  glory.  For  France! 
Forward !" 

Without  one  cannon  shot  to  warn  English  and  Turk, 
he  launched  them  on  the  north-eastern  bastion. 

The  Albanian  riflemen  rent  their  ranks,  but  still  they 
pressed  on  to  the  foot  of  the  crumbling  ramparts,  and 
up  and  up,  clutching  pike  and  scimitar  with  their  naked 
hands.  The  dry  moat  was  full  of  the  dead,  the  ram- 
parts were  sodden  in  blood,  and  still  the  Frenchmen 
strove  up  and  up,  till  the  tricolour  was  planted  firm. 
The  bastion  was  won.  Then  down  into  the  street  they 
plunged,  while  the  Turks  fought  desperately  as  the 
Turk  will  at  bay. 

But  Achilles  of  Ceos  had  been  provident.  The  boat 
that  brought  him  ashore  waited  just  one  hour,  and 
then,  as  Achilles  had  bidden,  went  back  to  the  felucca 


314  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

to  set  Captain  Sidney  Smith  free.  They  gagged  him 
again,  and  bound  him  neatly,  and  did  him  up  in  a  car- 
pet. So  they  put  him,  a  tidy  bundle,  on  the  quay  at 
Acre,  and  remarking  that  it  was  a  piece  of  goods  from 
Achilles  of  Ceos  for  Captain  Sidney  Smith,  they  rowed 
swiftly  back  to  their  felucca.  The  Turks  on  the  quay 
poked  this  strange  merchandise  about  to  see  if  any  part 
of  it  could  be  stolen.  It  grunted  strangely.  They 
undid  it,  and  behold,  the  gift  to  Captain  Sidney 
Smith  was  Captain  Sidney  Smith  himself.  First  they 
salaamed  to  him  profoundly,  which  must  have  been 
very  trying  to  his  feelings;  then  they  took  off  his 
bonds,  and  last  of  all  they  removed  his  gag.  Captain 
Sidney  Smith  said  just  what  he  thought. 

Meanwhile,  if  the  matter  interests  you,  the  felucca 
of  Achilles  of  Ceos  had  her  anchor  aboard,  and  stood 
out  to  sea.  At  nightfall  she  crept  unseen  in-shore, 
and  two  boats'  crews  went  to  look  for  Achilles.  They 
heard  of  his  death.  They  murdered  some  two  or  three 
score  French  to  pay  the  blood  debt.  Then  they  went 
aboard  again,  and  made  sail  for  Ceos. 

Captain  Sidney  Smith  had  hurried  to  the  fight.  Ere 
he  came  the  French  were  in.  By  all  the  rules  of  war 
the  town  was  taken.  Captain  Sidney  Smith  never 
obeyed  any  rules.  He  signalled  to  his  ships  in  the 
offing  for  every  man  they  could  spare  with  pike  and 
cutlass.  Then  he  began  to  make  the  Turks  retreat, 
slowly,  difficulty,  foot  by  foot,  toward  the  pacha's 
palace.  He  filled  that  with  riflemen.  He  heated  huge 
cauldrons  of  pitch.  The  Turks  fled  into  the  palace. 
After  them  came  the  French  on  and  on,  surging  into 
the  courtyard.  Only  a  few  shots  gave  them  challenge. 
The  French  filled  the  courtyard,  hammered  at  the 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       315 

doors,  swarmed  up  to  the  windows.  Then  from  a  dozen 
places  poured  a  stream  of  molten  pitch.  Some  were 
scalded  and  yelled  in  agony,  tearing  at  their  seared 
flesh.  All  fell  back.  Still  the  cataracts  of  pitch  poured 
down.  It  fell  upon  the  stones  and  spread  a  warm  black 
flood  beneath  the  feet  of  the  French.  They  were  stamp- 
ing about  trying  to  free  themselves  from  the  clog  of  it 
when  every  window  of  the  palace  vomited  lead.  The 
French  were  trapped.  They  could  only  stagger  in 
flight,  for  the  cooling  pitch  held  them  and  slewed  them. 
While  they  raved  in  impotent  fury  the  Albanian  rifle- 
men shot  them  down.  .  .  . 

Upon  the  remnant  beyond  in  the  street  fell  the 
English  sailors,  and  hurled  them  away  as  the  wind 
drives  an  April  cloud.  Kleber's  men  coming  to  their 
support,  were  overwhelmed  in  the  mad  rush  of  the  fight. 
Away  to  the  walls  and  out  they  were  driven,  losing 
terribly.  Of  all  that  brave  division  only  a  few  broken 
bleeding  men  bore  their  wounded  general  back.  .  .  . 

Bonaparte  saw  it  and  knew  defeat.  The  half  of  his 
army  was  gone.  There  in  the  blaze  of  sunlight  he  sat 
his  horse,  gazing  at  the  walls  that  had  mocked  him, 
those  wet  crimson  walls.  As  he  rode  off  his  chin  fell 
down  on  his  breast.  Captain  Sidney  Smith  had  climbed 
to  the  bastion  and  stood  there  laughing  while  he  wiped 
his  hands  on  the  French  flag. 

It  was  all  over.  Not  at  Acre  was  Bonaparte  to  seize 
the  key  of  the  world.  Not  in  the  East  was  he  to  found 
his  empire.  He  knew  it  and  faced  the  fact.  There  was 
only  one  thing  possible — retreat.  Another  assault,  a 
few  days  more  in  the  poisonous  vapours  of  the  marsh 
would  leave  him  with  an  army  of  the  dead.  He  made  up 
his  mind  in  a  moment.  He  made  his  plans  in  an  hour. 


316  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

At  midnight  the  army  would  march.  Every  man 
was  to  go  afoot.  The  horses  were  for  such  of  the 
wounded  as  could  ride.  For  those  who  could  not — he 
spoke  with  his  surgeon-general  Glandasse.  "The  army 
is  falling  back,  Glandasse.  Some  of  your  wounded  are 
not  fit  to  ride." 

"Many,  my  general." 

"I  am  not  content  that  they  should  be  tortured  or 
enslaved  by  the  Turks.  You  will  arrange  it,  Glan- 
dasse." 

"But  I  do  not  understand,  my  general." 

"Fool!  fool!"  Bonaparte  started  up  in  a  passion. 
"Is  it  not  your  trade  to  make  death  easy?" 

The  surgeon  drew  back.  "It  is  my  trade  to  save  life, 
not  destroy  it." 

Bonaparte  cursed  him  passionately.  "It  is  your 
trade  to  obey  orders,  rascal.  Obey,  or  I  will  have  you 
shot.  Understand  me,  Glandasse.  Obey  or  die.  I  will 
have  no  Frenchman  slave  to  the  Turk  to  spare  your 
sentiments." 

The  surgeon  was  pale.  "You — you  mean  a  drug, 
my  general?"  he  stammered. 

"I  mean  a  kindly  death.     See  to  it." 

"There  is — there  is  the  Greek  girl,  my  general.  She 
could  not  ride." 

"It  is  the  better  for  her,"  said  Bonaparte  coldly; 
and  at  that  the  surgeon  fairly  fled  from  him. 

All  day  long  Iris  had  lain  in  the  hospital  tent,  still, 
listless,  scarce  alive,  bereft  of  all  hope,  yearning,  yearn- 
ing for  death.  The  surgeon  who  brought  her  the 
opium  draught  had  tears  in  his  eyes.  But  she  did  not 
see  that.  .  .  . 

Jean  Dortan,  who  had  hunted  the  camp  through  for 


HOW  HE  FAILED  HIS  FORTUNE       317 

a  delicate  meal  for  her,  found  her  white  and  still  in 
death.  They  told  him  how,  and  he  broke  out  in  blas- 
phemy. .  .  .  He  plunged  into  the  tent  where  Bona- 
parte sat  drawing  up  the  order  of  march.  "Am  I  to 
serve  a  poisoner  of  women?"  he  cried. 

Bonaparte  looked  up  and  his  eyes  were  weary.  "You 
have  seen  her,  then?"  he  asked  eagerly.  Jean  Dortan 
poured  out  violent,  incoherent  abuse.  "You  are  a  little 
moved,  my  dear  Jean,"  said  Bonaparte.  "You  are  also 
a  little  foolish.  I  am  to  blame — for  being  too  kind  to 
her.  If  I  had  been  willing  to  cheat  her  she  might  be 
alive.  If  I  were  willing  to  leave  her  for  a  slave  of  the 
Turk  she  might  be  alive.  Eh!"  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "I  think  she  should  thank  me,  wherever 
she  is." 

"I  thank  God  I  am  not  you,"  cried  Jean  Dortan. 

"It  is  devout  if  superfluous,"  said  Bonaparte;  and 
as  Jean  was  flinging  away  with  an  oath,  "Jean!  Tell 
me!  Did  she  look  happy?"  he  cried. 

"Happier  than  you  ever  will  be,"  growled  Jean 
Dortan. 

******* 

Dawn  was  breaking  over  the  mountains  of  Galilee, 
and  the  rosy  light  woke  the  sea  as  the  little  weary  army 
toiled  up  the  long  dark  ridge  of  Carmel.  Bonaparte 
strode  in  the  van  alone.  Already  new  schemes  were 
formed  in  that  greedy  brain.  He  would  go  back  to 
France  and  snatch  power  from  the  weak  hands  of  Tal- 
lien  and  Barras  and  the  rest,  make  himself  lord  of 
France  and  her  teeming  fields,  fashion  of  Frenchmen  a 
weapon  that  should  beat  down  the  nations  till  he  stood 
Emperor  of  the  West.  .  .  .  And  still,  as  the  sun  rose 
higher  and  the  Syrian  dawn  was  clothed  in  splendour, 


318  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

amethyst  and  crimson  and  orange  aw#,y  to  the  violet 
sea,  he  yearned  for  the  hope  he  had  lo$t,  that  vast  Em- 
pire in  the  Orient.  He  scorned  himself  for  his  weakness 
of  yesterday.  One  lie  the  more,  and  he  had  conquered. 
Fool,  fool,  fool,  that  could  not  cheat  a  girl's  eyes !  The 
grim  brow  lowered,  his  dark  cheek  quivered,  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  "I  failed  my  fortune!  Yes,  I  failed 
my  fortune  there." 


CHAPTER  XI 


HOW    HE    WON    HIS    THKONE 


FRANCE  was  ill.  Every  Frenchman  was  agreed  upon 
that.  The  violent  surgery  of  the  Revolution  had 
inflamed  her.  She  shook  in  spasms  of  the  disease  of 
discontent.  The  south  and  west  had  begun  revolu- 
tions against  the  Revolution.  The  peasants  were  for 
abolishing  Paris,  Paris  for  ravaging  the  countryside. 
In  the  blessed  names  of  Liberty,  Equality  and  Fra- 
ternity, each  man  prayed  for  the  ruin  of  his  neigh- 
bour. A  Directory  of  gluttons  and  a  Council  of  fools 
could  not  stay  them.  Certainly  France  was  ill.  There 
were  many  prescriptions  for  her. 

The  Abbe  Sieyes  offered  her  a  constitution  or  so. 
La  Reveilliere-Lepeaux  had  made  her  a  new  religion, 
and  was  hurt  because  she  would  not  embrace  it.  He 
complained  to  all  who  would  listen.  It  was  the  Foreign 
Minister,  the  Citizen  Talleyrand,  who  gave  him  sym- 
pathy. "You  want  your  religion  believed,  my  friend? 
Nothing  is  easier.  Get  yourself  crucified  and  rise  again 
in  three  days."  Then  the  poor  La  Reveilliere  asked 
him  to  explain. 

The  Citizen  Talleyrand  had  not  much  doubt  what 
France  needed,  and  he  was  looking  for  neither  consti- 
tution nor  religion.  His  eyes  were  upon  a  young  gen- 
eral who  had  conquered  Italy  and  was  making  some 
noise  in  the  Orient.  The  General  Bonaparte's  dis- 
patches roared  of  victory  and  success  and  wealth,  but 


320  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

the  Citizen  Talleyrand,  who  was  not  hampered  by  an 
excessive  faith  in  other  men's  words,  and  had  a  good 
eye  for  facts,  made  ready  to  have  him  back  in  France. 

In  the  early  autumn  a  pair  of  frigates  stole  into 
the  harbour  of  Frejus,  and  the  Conqueror  of  the 
East — whom  the  greatest  luck  had  hardly  saved  from 
an  English  prison — was  back  in  France  to  gamble  for 
power.  The  people  believed  in  him.  He  was  welcomed 
as  if  he  had  brought  the  treasures  of  Asia  with  him 
and  not  left  his  army  behind.  France  was  a  dozen 
years  from  knowing  him  yet. 

The  Citizeness  Bonaparte  was  not  at  home  for  him. 
She  had  left  the  little  house  of  the  Rue  Chantereine  for 
her  dear  Chateau  La  Malmaison.  There  you  see 
Josephine  in  the  late  summer  of  her  womanhood,  a 
glowing  vision  of  pleasure,  amuse  herself  and  Captain 
Barsac  of  the  3rd  Hussars.  Captain  Barsac  is  agree- 
able to  her  temper,  for  he  does  not  pretend  to  be  in 
earnest  too  earnestly. 

Captain  Barsac,  a  lean,  lusty  fellow,  leant  over 
Josephine's  couch  half-affectionate,  half-mocking,  as  a 
man  might  be  to  a  comely  child.  "Beyond  doubt, 
citizeness,"  says  he,  "you  are  the  most  charming  woman 
in  the  world — to  look  at." 

"I  hate  compliments  with  thorns,"  she  pouted.  Her 
white  arm  went  behind  her  head  as  she  lay  back.  "Do 
you  only  want  to  look,  Captain  Barsac?"  and  her  eyes 
were  gay. 

Barsac  laughed:  "If  I  did  more  than  look  you 
would  hate  me.  Faith,  I  believe  there  never  was  a  man 
to  whom  you  wanted  to  give  more  than  a  look.  Eh, 
citizeness,  how  much  more  had  you  for  Bonaparte?" 

There  was  a  faint  flush  in  Josephine's  ivory  cheek, 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE 

but  her  eyes  smiled  and  her  lips.  "If  you  were  he  you 
might  know,  sir.  And  though  I  mean  to  give  you  no 
more  than  a  look,  is  that  a  reason  I  should  not  like  you 
to  want  more?" 

"How  much  of  you  am  I  to  want,  citizeness  ?"  Barsac 
asked  obediently. 

"You  are  not  sure?" 

"But  absolutely,"  cried  Barsac.  "I  want  the  vision 
of  you — you,  the  perfect  body  of  womanhood — Venus  of 
1799.  And  on  my  soul  no  more  than  the  vision.  Oh, 
but  I  adore  you " 

An  oath  exploded.  Captain  Barsac  turned.  In  the 
doorway  stood  a  mean  little  man  in  a  faded  grey  coat, 
swearing  .  .  .  swearing.  .  .  . 

"A  gentleman  who  has  left  his  manners  in  the  hall," 
said  Captain  Barsac,  and  marched  on  him. 

"Napoleon !"  cried  Josephine,  and  ran,  holding  out 
her  white  arms. 

Captain  Barsac  clicked  his  heels  and  stood  to  atten- 
tion. "My  apologies,  general.  I  did  not  recognise 
you  as  a  husband." 

Bonaparte  put  Josephine  aside  and  strode  up  to 
Barsac.  "Your  name  and  regiment,  sir?" 

"Barsac,  Captain.  Of  the  3rd  Hussars,"  quoth  Bar- 
sac.  Then,  with  gay  insolence:  "And  am  I  to  hear 
from  you  as  general  or  gentleman?" 

"Go  to  your  quarters,  sir,"  Bonaparte  snarled. 

"In  good  time.  First  let  me  finish  my  sentence.  I 
was  saying,  citizeness,"  he  turned  to  Josephine,  "that 
I  adore  you — as  one  adores  a  picture  by  the  Citizen 
David.  You  awake  the  same  emotions.  General,  my 
felicitations.  Citizeness,  your  servitor.  Good  night." 
Captain  Barsac  swaggered  out. 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Bonaparte  faced  round  on  his  wife  scowling:  "Will 
you  never  learn  any  shame?" 

Josephine  was  ready  with  tears.  "I  did  not  know 
you  were  coming,"  she  sobbed.  "And  he  is  nothing — 
really  nothing." 

"If  he  were  more,  you  would  not  care  for  him  nor 
he  for  you." 

"He  does  not.  And  you  are  very  unkind,"  Josephine 
wailed.  "You  have  been  away  so  long,  and  you  only 
come  back  to  scold  me." 

Bonaparte  swore  again.  "Understand  me,  Joseph- 
ine. I  give  you  nothing,  for  that  you  deserve.  I  ask 
nothing  of  you,  for  you  have  nothing  to  give.  But  if 
you  disgrace  me,  I  have  done  with  you.  You  will  go." 

Josephine  wept  prettily.  .  .  .  She  was  not  tired  of 
it  yet  when  a  maid  knocked  to  announce  the  Citizen 
Talleyrand.  Bonaparte's  grim  scorn  faded  in  a 
thoughtful  smile.  Josephine  bade  the  maid  wait, 
darted  to  the  mirror  and  abolished  all  her  tears 
in  a  moment,  and  decked  herself  with  neatness  and 
smiles. 

His  iron  boot  thudding  heavily,  the  Citizen  Talley- 
rand limped  into  the  room.  Josephine  came  to  meet 
him  in  graceful  haste  and  set  him  a  low  chair.  "The 
citizeness  is  always  kind,"  said  he,  in  a  deep  level  voice. 
"How  I  envy  you,  general!"  and  his  light  blue  eyes 
turned  swift  upon  Bonaparte. 

"It  is  probable,"  said  Bonaparte,  "that  Talleyrand 
did  not  come  from  Paris  to  talk  of  my  wife." 

"If  her  husband  were  not  here  it  would  be  a  pleas- 
ure," said  Talleyrand,  and  his  pale  lips  smiled  at 
Josephine. 

"Oh,  but  you  are  always  wicked !"  she  laughed. 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  323 

"Go,  Josephine,"  said  Bonaparte  sharply,  and  she 
went  in  a  hurry. 

Talleyrand's  smile  remained.  "In  fact,"  said  he,  "I 
came  to  congratulate  the  Conqueror  of  the  East  on  his 
self-denial  in  leaving  his  conquests  for  this  poor  coun- 
try of  France." 

Bonaparte  examined  him  intently.  The  sneer  was  in 
the  thought  rather  than  the  tone  or  the  pallid  impassive 
face.  Bonaparte  gave  challenge  at  once.  "It  amuses 
you  to  be  sarcastic,  citizen,"  he  said  coldly. 

"Yes ;  I  propose  to  be  sincere,"  said  Talleyrand.  "I 
have  an  affection  for  the  Citizen  Talleyrand  and  some- 
thing of  a  kindness  for  France.  Neither  is  very  well 
just  now.  I  do  not  suspect  you  of  a  weakness  for  any- 
thing but  Bonaparte.  If  he  has  the  wit  he  might  serve 
himself  best  in  serving  France."  He  lay  back,  straight- 
ening his  lame  leg  painfully,  and  studied  Bonaparte's 
eyes. 

"Explain  yourself,  citizen,"  said  Bonaparte  inno- 
cently. 

"I  think  too  well  of  your  wits,"  quoth  Talleyrand. 

Bonaparte  spent  some  moments  searching  his  face. 
Talleyrand's  eyes  gave  back  a  dull,  cold  stare.  "It 
seems,  citizen,"  said  Bonaparte,  "that  we  understand 
each  other  well  enough  not  to  trust  each  other?" 

"It  is  the  way  of  fools.  I  thought  you  were  not  one, 
general." 

"The  Citizen  Talleyrand  wants  me  to  talk  treason. 
It  is  a  compliment.  He  must  think  me  worth  betray- 
ing." 

Talleyrand  yawned.  "You  have  no  originality.  If 
I  wanted  you  destroyed  I  would  persuade  the  Directory 
to  shoot  you  as  a  deserter.  Bernadotte  talks  of  it 


324  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

already.  I  suppose  you  deserve  it.  You  have  left  your 
miserable  army  in  Egypt  to  destruction.  But  I  am 
not  a  pedant.  I  want  the  day's  work  done.  You  can 
be  some  use  to  France." 

"In  making  the  Citizen  Talleyrand  her  dictator?" 
Bonaparte  sneered. 

Talleyrand  put  up  one  heavy  shoulder  till  his  short 
neck  was  altogether  lost.  "I  was  not  born  to  rule.  I 
have  not  the  mind  or" — he  looked  with  contempt  at  his 
withered  leg — "the  body.  But  I  do  not  like  to  serve 
fools.  .  .  .  Bah!  this  is  tedious,  general.  Why  are 
you  back  but  to  make  yourself  master  of  France? 
Perhaps  you  have  a  way  of  your  own.  You  will  waste 
less  blood  if  you  work  with  a — statesman." 

"I  am  a  soldier." 

"In  grain.  It  will  always  be  against  you.  But  you 
are  the  best  fortune  France  can  find.  I  am  willing  to 
help  you." 

"Forgive  me,  citizen,  if  I  wonder  how  you  can." 

"I  know  you  can  do  without  me.  I  know  I  cannot 
do  without  you.  You  are  ready  for  the  blood  of  a  civil 
war.  Well,  I  am  not.  It  is  waste." 

That  note  rang  to  Bonaparte's  heart.  Prodigal  at 
need  of  the  lives  and  work  of  men,  he  was  governed  as 
yet  by  the  sane  hatred  of  spending  in  vain.  "What  is 
your  plan?"  he  said  sharply. 

"A  constitution,"  said  Talleyrand. 

"An  imbecility !" 

"It  is  imbeciles  who  people  the  world  and  fight  for 
you.  You  must  please  the  imbeciles.  That  is  the  secret 
of  government.  There  is  Sieyes — if  you  fill  him  to  the 
neck  with  gold  he  will  draw  a  new  constitution  for 
you — a  constitution  decorated  with  a  chief  magistrate. 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  825 

We  will  make  a  party  of  reform  in  the  Council.  There 
is  your  brother  Lucien,  who  is  fool  enough  to  be  a  sin- 
cere republican.  You  can  impose  upon  him  and  he 
upon  respectability.  Let  him  carry  our  reform.  You 
will  be  chief  magistrate  of  the  Republic.  From  that  it 
is  an  easy  step  to  something  else." 

"I  see  a  weakness,"  said  Bonaparte. 

"I  see  a  thousand." 

"Whether  I  go  your  way  or  my  own,  I  must  have 
troops." 

"Oh,  if  you  are  afraid "  sneered  Talleyrand. 

"Precisely.  I  am  afraid.  There  are  brigades  at  St. 
Cloud.  I  must  have  them." 

Talleyrand  shrugged.  "Tell  your  brother  Lucien 
that  the  State  cannot  leave  General  Bonaparte  with- 
out a  command.  So  devoted  an  adherent  of  the  Re- 
public— it  would  be  indecent.  He  must  have  the  Army 
of  Paris." 

"That  first,"  said  Bonaparte  sharply. 

"It  is  easy.     The  next  difficulty  is  greater." 

"When  one  has  troops "  Bonaparte  began. 

"One  has  not  secured  the  Citizen  Fouche." 

"A  chief  of  police,"  Bonaparte  sneered. 

"An  artist  in  crime.  It  is  the  only  wise  thing  I  know 
of  our  rulers,  that  they  pay  Fouche  well.  If  he  sees 
that  you  or  I  have  become  dangerous,  we  shall  quietly 
expire." 

"He  is  doubtless  for  sale." 

"I  have  not  the  money.  It  will  be  wise  to  remain 
obscure  from  the  Citizen  Fouche  till  we  are  in  a  position 
to  make  him  fear  a  little." 

Bonaparte  smiled.  The  economical  spirit  pleased 
him.  "So  much  for  Fouche,"  he  said.  "And  what  is 


326 


the  price  of  the  Citizen  Talleyrand's  ingenuity?" 

"Let  me  be  the  minister  of  a  ruler  of  France  that 
has  a  brain." 

"You  are  disinterested,  citizen." 

"I  shall  show  you  that  I  am  not.  I  have  no  virtues, 
general.  Only  I  cannot  digest  fools." 

Bonaparte  smiled.  Before  they  parted  he  had 
engaged  to  meet  Talleyrand  on  the  n  orrow.  But  as 
Talleyrand's  carriage  rolled  away  back  to  Paris  a  pair 
of  horsemen  were  following  it  from  afar.  Talleyrand 
had  not  made  too  much  of  the  Citizen  Fouche.  The 
Citizen  Fouche — he  was  the  only  force  of  that  flabby, 
greedy  Government.  To  kill  the  Directory — to  abolish 
Barras  and  Gohier  and  Moulin — that  was  nothing  for  a 
man  with  wits  and  a  regiment.  But  the  Citizen  Fouche 
was  different — was  as  able  as  a  knave  can  be.  Greedy 
of  cash,  he  loved  the  Directory  and  its  lax  order  that 
fed  him  fat,  as  a  drunkard  loves  a  tavern. 

Bonaparte,  in  spite  of  a  protesting  maid,  had  in- 
truded himself  into  Josephine's  room.  She  was  at  her 
ease  in  a  cloud  of  lace — a  picture  of  the  charm  of  sex. 
Bonaparte  could  see  that  no  more.  He  stood  over  her, 
cold  and  menacing.  "We  go  back  to  Paris  to-morrow, 
Josephine.  You  will  at  length  behave  as  my  wife." 
He  did  not  wait  to  see  her  cry. 

The  next  day  he  welcomed  his  brother  Lucien,  that 
austere  republican,  to  the  little  house  in  the  Rue  Chan- 
tereine.  He  found  Lucien  convinced,  like  every  honest 
man  in  France,  that  the  times  were  out  of  joint,  by 
no  means  convinced  that  he  was  the  man  to  set  them 
right.  Bonaparte  was  sympathetic.  He  talked  with 
his  florid  eloquence  of  the  ideal  republic.  He  inflamed 
Lucien's  imagination.  Till  the  cry  broke  out :  "Napo- 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  327 

leon!  you  were  born  to  be  the  saviour  of  France." 
Then  he  was  modestly  shy.  He  sent  the  good  Lucien 
away,  sure  that  he  was  a  noble  republican  hero,  and  he 
went  to  confer  with  Talleyrand.  One  of  the  Citi- 
zen Fouche's  familiars  followed  him  without  ostenta- 
tion. 

In  the  like  peaceful  manner  several  days  passed. 
Fouche  watching  keenly  for  a  trace  of  sinister  activity, 
found  none,  and  hesitated  to  strike.  It  was  the  excel- 
lent Lucien  who  sprang  a  mine  upon  him.  Urgent  that 
the  services  of  his  heroic  brother  should  not  be  lost  to 
the  State,  Lucien  set  a  good  republican  friend  to  move 
that  General  Bonaparte  be  appointed  commander  of 
the  Army  of  Paris.  None  of  the  Council  suspected  more 
than  Lucien  himself.  It  was  carried  easily.  The  only 
army  in  France  was  put  at  Bonaparte's  call.  Then 
Fouche  understood.  He  was  no  more  a  republican 
than  Bonaparte  himself;  he  cared  no  more  for  the 
Directory  and  the  Council.  But  the  government  of 
fools  suited  him  well;  let  him  peculate  and  extort  at 
will.  He  made  ready  to  abolish  Bonaparte. 

Captain  Barsac  also  was  displeased  with  Bonaparte. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Bonaparte  had  been  unreason- 
able, and  Captain  Barsac  was  not  ready  to  encourage 
a  man  in  being  unreasonable  about  his  wife.  So  he 
made  a  call  upon  Josephine  in  the  Rue  Chantereine. 
It  was  well  for  Bonaparte. 

On  that  night  Bonaparte  went  to  Talleyrand's  house 
to  meet  the  sleek  Abbe  Sieyes.  "The  Citizen  General," 
Talleyrand  explained,  after  compliments,  "longs  to  see 
a  purer  government  in  France." 

"The  Citizen  General,"  said  Sieyes,  with  enthusiasm, 
"is  of  Roman  virtue."  And  perhaps  he  believed  it.  He 


828  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

had  a  unique  ability  in  self-deception.  He  believed  in 
himself. 

"I  know  the  austere  patriotism  of  the  Citizen 
Sieyes,"  said  Bonaparte,  who  knew  that  Talleyrand  had 
been  filling  him  with  gold.  "Therefore  I  turn  to  him, 
I  appeal  to  him  in  the  name  of  France,  to  devise  with 
his  unequalled  powers  a  constitution  worthy  of  her 
glory." 

"That  is  the  work  of  a  genius,"  said  Talleyrand, 
who  knew  that  Sieyes  was  greedy  of  flattery  as  of 
money.  "To  put  it  into  action  is  for  rough  men  of 
affairs.'* 

Sieyes  coughed.  He  had  been  giving  birth  to  con- 
stitutions since  he  began  to  shave,  but  he  would  not 
cheapen  himself  by  being  too  facile.  "It  is  indeed  a 
matter  of  painful  ratiocination.  It  calls  for  the 
exhaustion  of  the  highest  faculties  of  man.  We  have 
to  preserve  the  sacred  principles  of  Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity — to  give  the  nation  confidence  in  the  plan 
of  government " 

"And  the  executive  full  power,"  said  Bonaparte 
sharply. 

Sieyes  scratched  his  shining  nose.  "That  is  no  doubt 
desirable,"  said  he. 

"It  is  indispensable,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Sieyes  looked  at  him  thoughtfully — and  remembered 
Talleyrand's  gold.  "But  we  have  to  preserve  the  glori- 
ous principles  of  the  Revolution,"  said  he. 

"That,"  said  Talleyrand  suavely,  "is  why  we  appeal 
to  you." 

And  Sieyes  understood  what  was  wanted — a  mask 
for  despotism.  A  constitution  which  would  cheat 
republicans  into  thinking  it  republican,  while  it  gave 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE          329 

Bonaparte  freedom  to  use  all  France  at  his  will.  He 
was  not  ready  to  provide  it  cheaply.  "But  I  must  be 
assured,"  said  he,  "that  no  treason  is  meditated  to  holy 
liberty,"  and  he  looked  Talleyrand  full  in  the  face. 

Talleyrand  put  one  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  smiled. 
"I  will  give  you  every  assurance,  my  dear  Sieyes,"  and 
he  made  coins  chink. 

Sieyes  flushed.  It  was  annoying  that  Talleyrand 
should  not  think  him  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
refined.  He  turned  to  Bonaparte,  saw  him  smiling, 
coughed,  and  began  in  the  tone  of  a  professor.  "In 
attempting  to  attain  the  ideal  government,  general," 
said  he,  "we  should  have  always  before  our  eyes  the 
glorious  example  of  ancient  Rome.  There  was  a  per- 
fect recognition  of  the  rights  of  man — for  every  citi- 
zen, you  must  know,  had  the  vote — we  find  that  the 
officers  they  elected,  the  great  officers  of  state,  the 
consuls "  He  broke  off  suddenly  and  looked  anx- 
iously at  the  window.  There  was  some  noise  outside. 

"Consul ;  it  has  a  good  republican  sound,"  said  Tal- 
leyrand, and  he  looked  at  Bonaparte.  "Does  General 
Bonaparte  stand  for  the  consulate?" 

"Does  consulate  mean  power?"  said  Bonaparte.  "I 
must  have  power,  power  in  peace  and  war.  I " 

Sieyes,  who  had  not  listened  to  them,  Sieyes,  who 
had  been  straining  to  hear  the  noises  of  the  street, 
started  forward  and  crept  to  the  window  and  peered 
out.  They  saw  his  sleek  face  go  white. 

"What  is  it,  man?"  said  Bonaparte  sharply. 

Sieyes  turned,  and  they  saw  his  swollen  eyes. 
"Gendarmes,  Fouche's  gendarmes,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Bonaparte  pounced  on  the  candles  and  put  them 
out. 


330  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Then  Talleyrand's  level  voice  spoke  out  of  the  gloom. 
"Does  it  occur  to  you,  general,  that  if  you  wished  to 
draw  attention  to  this  room,  you  have  done  it?" 

"Is  there  a  way  out?"  Bonaparte  hissed. 

"A  way  out  to  the  gendarmes,"  said  Talleyrand 
calmly.  "No  other.  You  do  not  seem  at  your  best 
in  danger,  general.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any."  They 
heard  him  rise  and  limp  to  the  window.  .  .  .  The  noise 
in  the  street  grew  louder  and  louder.  .  .  .  "General, 
is  your  hand  steady  enough  to  light  the  candles?"  said 
Talleyrand,  and  heard  Bonaparte  mutter  an  oath.  "In 
his  emotions  our  dear  Sieyes  has  forgotten  that  Fouche 
generally  provides  each  night  an  escort  for  the  car- 
riages of  the  keepers  of  the  gambling  hells.  One 
carriage  has  broken  down  outside.  They  are  going 
on  now.  That  is  all.  .  .  ."  He  sneered  at  Bonaparte 
bungling  with  the  candles.  "I  did  not  suspect  you  of 
being  so  amusing,  general." 

Bonaparte  glared  at  him,  and  since  it  was  the  best 
thing  to  do,  told  the  truth.  "I  am  never  at  ease  with 
the  danger  I  do  not  know." 

"I  am  your  opposite,"  said  Talleyrand.  "The  un- 
known stimulates  me." 

"We  are  not  here  to  discuss  tastes,"  said  Bonaparte 
roughly;  and  turned  to  Sieyes,  who  had  swiftly  recov- 
ered his  ease.  "About  these  consuls!" 

That  night  they  hammered  out  in  the  rough  the 
constitution  that  was  to  impose  upon  the  earnest  repub- 
licans of  France.  There  were  to  be  three  consuls,  the 
first  of  them  supreme,  the  others  his  ministers.  But 
every  man  in  France  was  to  have  a  vote  in  electing  the 
senate,  and  the  senate  would  choose  the  consuls.  "The 
senate  being  quite  free  in  its  choice,"  said  Sieyes. 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  331 

"So  long  as  it  chooses  right,"  said  Talleyrand,  and 
even  the  respectable  Sieves  allowed  himself  to  smile.  He 
was  charged  with  the  task  of  elaborating  the  repub- 
lican beauties  of  the  scheme,  and  they  parted.  The 
faithful  Jean  Dortan  was  roused  from  his  sleep  in  the 
anteroom,  called  Bonaparte's  carriage  and  guarded 
him  home.  They  were  followed. 

Captain  Barsac,  who  had  other  ladies  in  Paris  to 
visit,  was  a  little  late  in  calling  on  Josephine.  He  was 
told  that  the  citizeness  was  not  at  home.  "Assure  her 
that  she  is,  my  dear,"  said  he  to  the  maid,  and  came 
in.  The  splendours  of  his  uniform  and  his  body  were 
spread  over  a  couch  when  Josephine  swam  into  the 
room. 

"Oh,  but  you  are  wicked,  and  I  cannot  possibly 
receive  you." 

Captain  Barsac  kissed  her  hands.  "That  is  why  I 
am  here." 

"Napoleon  will  be  furious." 

"I  never  permit  husbands  to  interfere  with  me,"  said 
Captain  Barsac.  "And  your  charms  are  multiplied  by 
the  gentleman's  jealousy." 

Josephine  put  out  a  white  arm  and  fingered  the  but- 
tons of  Barsac's  coat.  "But  you  do  like  me  myself?" 
she  asked,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  a  child's  longing 
in  her  dark  eyes. 

"Citizeness,  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  much  a  woman 
and  so  little.  I  adore  the  child  in  you.  The  woman — 
humph !" 

"What?"  said  Josephine,  wrinkling  her  fair  brow. 

But  a  military  oath  and  the  roar  of  a  bull  rang  in 
the  street,  and  there  was  the  scream  of  steel.  Captain 
Barsac  sprang  to  the  window.  "Name  of  a  dog,  the 


832  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

Little  Corporal !"  said  he,  and  plucked  at  his  sword  and 
leapt  out. 

Fouche,  you  remember,  had  made  arrangements  for 
Bonaparte.  When  Bonaparte's  carriage  drew  up  in 
the  Rue  Chantereine  there  was  another  carriage  behind 
it.  When  Bonaparte  stepped  out  on  the  causeway  a 
ring  of  men  gathered  about  him.  Jean  Dortan  started 
forward  from  the  door  to  buffet  them  aside.  Then 
steel  gleamed  out  in  the  dim  light,  and  Bonaparte 
jumped  back  to  his  carriage,  and  Jean  Dortan,  head 
down  like  a  bull,  and  like  a  bull  roaring,  plunged  at  the 
ring.  Two  he  caught  in  his  arms  and  dashed  them  on 
the  stones,  but  the  rest  beat  him  down  and  swept  over 
him  upon  Bonaparte,  who  from  the  shelter  of  the  car- 
riage defended  himself  ill  enough  while  he  yelled  to  the 
coachman  to  drive  on.  But  they  had  beaten  the  coach- 
man off  the  box,  they  held  the  reins,  and  three  of  them 
pressed  Bonaparte  hard.  His  sword  was  flickering 
feebly — he  was  beaten  back  to  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  carriage — they  were  in  the  doorway  shortening 
their  swords. 

"Engage,  citizens !"  a  gay  voice  rang  behind  them,  a 
white  flash  shot  into  one  man's  eye,  recoiled,  and  sped 
to  another  heart.  The  third  man  leapt  from  the  car- 
riage, fell,  staggered  to  his  feet  and  ran.  Barsac's 
sword  swung  upon  the  two  grovelling  with  Jean  Dor- 
tan,  and  one  writhed  away  and  fled.  The  other  was 
still  enough.  Jean  Dortan  was  hammering  out  his 
brains.  Barsac  returned  to  Bonaparte.  "You  seem 
to  have  some  enemies,  general,"  said  he.  "Yet  your 
manners  are  very  agreeable." 

Bonaparte  came  out  of  the  carriage  panting :  "Cap- 
tain Barsac?.  What  do  you  do  here?" 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE          335 

"It  is  not  often  that  one  jumps  out  of  the  window 
to  meet  the  husband,  is  it?"  said  Barsac  with  a  laugh. 
Then  he  saw  a  line  of  blood  on  Bonaparte's  temple, 
and  swore.  "General,  have  these  swine  of  civilians  hurt 
you?" 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Bonaparte  quietly.  The  pres- 
ent danger  never  troubled  him.  "Come  in.  Jean — 

Jean "  But  the  methodical  rumble  of  oaths  from 

Jean  Dortan,  who  was  picking  up  the  battered  coach- 
man, gave  evidence  that  he  was  not  wounded  to  death. 
Bonaparte  and  Barsac  went  into  the  house  together. 
Down  the  street  scared  heads  peered  out  of  dark  win- 
dows, but  brawls  were  too  common  under  the  good  gov- 
ernment of  the  Directory  to  draw  a  wise  bourgeois  over 
his  threshold  by  night. 

Under  the  candles  in  the  hall  Bonaparte  turned  and 
faced  Barsac,  and  the  two  men  stood  close,  Bonaparte's 
eyes  searching  the  reckless  gay  face  that  defied  him. 
"It  appears,  Captain  Barsac,  that  you  took  the  trouble 
to  save  my  life,"  said  Bonaparte.  "I  have  made  a 
mistake  about  you." 

"I  was  thoughtless."  Barsac  gave  an  irritating 
smile.  "Of  course  you  are  the  impediment  to  my  affec- 
tions." 

"This  is  not  very  amusing,  captain." 

Barsac  broke  out  laughing.  "Ah,  well — perhaps  the 
game  is  up.  It  is  hard  now  to  pretend  I  love  the  citi- 
zeness  very  much.  But  it  was  entertaining." 

Into  the  hall,  a  beautiful  picture  of  alarm,  Josephine 
came  running.  "Napoleon!  You  are  not  hurt?  How 
terrible!  Was  it  not  glorious  of  him?" 

The  two  men  looked  at  her  scornfully  enough.  "Get 
your  cloak,  Josephine.  We  go  to  St.  Cloud  at  once," 


334  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

said  Bonaparte.  Josephine  began  to  babble.  "At 
once,"  said  Bonaparte  sharply.  "You  are  in  danger 
yourself." 

"Oh,  how  terrible!"  said  Josephine,  and  fluttered 
away. 

Barsac  met  Bonaparte's  eyes.  "After  all,  general," 
said  he,  "she  is  very  beautiful — as  a  doll." 

Bonaparte  shrugged.  "Captain  Barsac — you  will 
escort  us  to  St.  Cloud.  Paris  is  not  safe  yet." 

Barsac  saluted.  "Who  is  the  enemy,  general?"  he 
asked  carelessly. 

Bonaparte's  eyes  flashed.  "Let  it  be  enough  for  you 
that  I  call  you  friend." 

Barsac's  lips  moved  in  a  whimsical  smile.  He  did 
not  appear  to  appreciate  melodrama.  "After  all,  it 
would  be  exciting  to  be  your  enemy,"  he  murmured. 

Bonaparte  looked  at  him  keenly.  Then  he  too  smiled. 
He  had  a  value  for  recklessness.  He  took  Barsac's  arm 
and  drew  him  to  the  door.  "Tell  me  where  you  have 
served,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

With  Jean  Dortan  and  Captain  Barsac,  one  on 
either  side  the  coachman,  Bonaparte's  carriage  rolled 
away  to  St.  Cloud.  And  other  of  Fouche's  men,  com- 
ing back  to  spy  out  the  land,  told  Fouche  that  the 
bird  had  flown.  Fouche  spent  an  uneasy  night. 

The  next  morning  Lucien  was  summoned  to  St. 
Cloud  to  hear  how  vile  enemies  of  the  republic  had 
tried  to  assassinate  his  heroic  brother.  Lucien  glowed 
with  indignation,  and  grasped  so  earnestly  at  a  hint 
of  a  reformed  government  that  he  believed  the  idea  his 
own.  Bonaparte  talked  of  ancient  Rome  and  consuls, 
and  Lucien  was  wrought  by  enthusiasm.  He  went  back 
afire  with  pure  republican  zeal  to  inflame  others. 


HOW.  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  335 

Some  days  passed  while  Lucien  worked  on  his  party 
in  the  Council,  and  Sieyes  elaborated  the  details  of  his 
constitution,  and  Bonaparte  gathered  the  army  at  St. 
Cloud  into  his  grip.  Fouche,  who  did  not  dare  strike 
at  him  in  the  camp,  was  much  troubled.  He  had 
seen  Bonaparte  use  grapeshot  before.  He  would  rather 
stand  behind  the  guns  than  in  front.  The  matter  of 
getting  there  was  hastened  for  him  by  Captain 
Barsac. 

Captain  Barsac  had  an  admiration  for  many  other 
ladies  beside  Josephine.  He  did  not  permit  the  affair 
of  the  Rue  Chantereine  or  the  intentions  of  Fouche  to 
interfere  with  his  opportunities.  He  was  visiting  the 
golden-haired  lady  whom  the  world  had  not  yet  called 
Madame  Talleyrand  when  he  came  upon  Fouche. 
"Citizeness,  you  are  the  queen  of  the  summer  sky,"  said 
he,  "and  our  Fouche  the  king  of  a  smoky  fire."  The 
lady  tittered.  He  described  too  well  Fouche's  grey 
complexion  and  lurid  hair. 

Fouche  grinned  at  him.  "I  forget.  Are  you  the 
last  or  the  last  but  one  of  Josephine's  affections  ?, 
Well,  I  dare  say  you  don't  know." 

Barsac  smiled  very  amiably.  He  took  one  pace  for- 
ward. "I  detest  your  complexion,"  he  said  blandly. 

"Oh,  have  I  touched  on  a  sore?"  Fouche  grinned. 
"Be  comforted,  captain.  Bonaparte  will  help  you  back 
to  her  favours.  They  are  his  bribe  for  fools." 

"It  is  the  complexion  of  a  coward,"  Barsac  went  on 
with  his  own  subject.  "I  will  see  if  I  can  change  it 
for  you."  He  struck  Fouche's  grey  cheek  with  his 
open  hand,  laughed,  and  turned  on  his  heel.  "If  you 
have  a  friend  who  is  a  gentleman.,  send  him  to  me,"  he 
said,  over  his  shoulder. 


336 

"Do  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall  forget  you,  Captain 
Barsac,"  quoth  Fouche. 

"How  witty  we  are!"  cried  the  lady:  "pray  be  con- 
tent with  a  battle  of  wit." 

"Our  poor  Fouche,  you  see,  would  have  no  weapons," 
Barsac  explained. 

"Then  let  it  be  a  battle  of  politeness." 

"The  poor  Fouche  does  not  know  the  rules." 

"But  it  is  you,  Captain  Barsac " 

"Let  it  be,  citizeness,"  said  Fouche  quietly.  "He 
requires  a  lesson.  He  shall  have  it  to  meditate  on  in 
the  next  world." 

"Where  I  shall  be  far  removed  from  Fouche." 

"In  the  hell  of  fools,"  quoth  Fouche,  and  slid  across 
the  perturbed  drawing-room.  He  changed  a  word  or 
two  here  and  there,  and  was  gone. 

Then  Talleyrand  limped  across  to  Barsac.  "If  I 
had  the  feh'city  to  be  you,  captain,"  said  he  in  a  low, 
level  voice,  "I  should  gallop  to  St.  Cloud,  and  live 
quietly  awhile." 

"It  would  be  gross  flattery  of  Fouche." 

"You  do  not  value  your  life?  Perhaps  you  are 
right.  But  consider  the  feelings  of  those  who  may  have 
a  use  for  you  both." 

"I'll  be  no  use  to  the  man  that  uses  Fouche,"  Barsac 
laughed. 

"I  bid  you  good-bye,"  said  Talleyrand  gravely,  and 
turned  away. 

But  Captain  Barsac  stayed  late,  and  on  his  leisurely 
way  home  to  St.  Cloud  was  not  assailed.  For  Fouche 
was  not  thinking  of  assassination  then.  You  see  him 
alone,  the  stiff  fox-hair  ruffled,  and  the  grey  face 
wrought  in  many  wrinkles  as  he  meditates  over  his  own 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  337 

safety.  The  end  of  it  was  that  he  went  to  St.  Cloud 
himself.  He  was  in  time  to  see  Sieyes  come  out  of 
Bonaparte's  quarters. 

Bonaparte,  behind  a  table  bearing  two  pistols, 
received  him  with  a  queer,  puzzling  smile. 

"Accept  the  assurance  of  my  entire  devotion,  gen- 
eral," said  Fouche. 

"I  was  curious  to  know  how  you  would  begin,"  said 
Bonaparte. 

"That  is  not  bad,"  said  Fouche  critically.  "But  as 
for  those  things" — he  pointed  at  the  pistols,  and 
snapped  his  fingers  at  them — "really,  general!" 

"They  are  a  compliment  to  you,  citizen."  Bona- 
parte smiled. 

"But  not  to  your  intelligence.  Oh,  you  may  hold 
one  of  them  to  my  head  all  the  time  if  you  are  sure 
your  hand  is  steady.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  to  want 
to  murder  you." 

"Yet  you  tried." 

"Eh?  Oh,  you  mean  that  fracas  in  the  Rue  Chante- 
reine.  If  they  had  been  my  men  they  would  not  have 
bungled  you." 

Bonaparte  laughed.  "I  know  that  is  a  lie,  and  you 
know  it  is  a  lie,  so  why " 

"Should  we  not  be  at  ease?"  said  Fouche  coolly. 
"After  all,  when  you  are  plotting  against  the  Directory 
you  must  expect  to  be  hit  back." 

"You  are  an  impudent  liar,  citizen,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Fouche  laughed.  "Very  well,  I  want  to  plot  with 
you.  That  is  all." 

"Good-day,  citizen,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Fouche  rose.  "So  be  it.  I  go  back  to  Paris  to 
arrest  brother  Lucien  and  his  friends." 


338  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Oh,"  Bonaparte  smiled,  "then  I  think  you  will  not 
go  back  to  Paris,"  and  he  struck  his  bell. 

"Do  you  take  me  for  an  idiot?"  said  Fouche  wearily. 
"Do  you  suppose  I  trusted  you?  If  I  am  not  back  in 
Paris  in  two  hours,  brother  Lucien  will  be  in  a  cell  of 
the  Conciergerie." 

"But  that  would  be  very  uncomfortable  for  the 
Citizen  Fouche,"  Bonaparte  murmured. 

"I  know,"  said  Fouche.  "I  know  you  must  win. 
But  I  know  I  can  give  you  a  hell  of  trouble.  Now 
then,  is  it  worth  wliile?" 

"What  do  you  want?"  Bonaparte  asked. 

"What  I've  got.  The  same  office  under  you  as  under 
the  Directory." 

Bonaparte  meditated,  with  his  eyes  on  the  pistols. 
"The  fact  is,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  want  you,  Fouche." 

"You  will.  For  three  plots  there  are  against  your 
life  now " 

"What?"  cried  Bonaparte  with  a  start.  Fouche 
was  through  his  armour  at  last. 

Fouche  swore.  "Do  you  suppose  you  can  make 
yourself  a  tyrant  without  a  thousand  Jacobins  trying 
to  murder  you?  Don't  you  know  human  nature?"  .  .  . 
There  was  silence  a  while.  .  .  .  "You'll  want  the  best 
minister  of  police  you  can  get,"  said  Fouche,  and 
tapped  his  breast.  "That's  all." 

He  saw  Bonaparte  moisten  his  lips.  "What  plots 
are  these?"  said  Bonaparte  gruffly. 

Fouche,  who  had  to  invent  them  on  the  moment,  was 
glib.  He  had  been  in  too  many  plots  himself  to  be  in 
danger  of  failing  for  grim  details.  .  .  .  He  made  an 
alarming  story.  .  .  .  Bonaparte  fidgeted,  and  rose  at 
last,  and  began  to  pace  the  room  with  quick,  short, 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  339 

nervous  steps.  Fouche  watched,  narrow-eyed.  He 
understood  perfectly  now.  Luck  and  his  own  vast 
knowledge  of  the  meanness  and  weakness  of  men  had 
delivered  Bonaparte  into  his  hands.  Peril  in  mystery 
quelled  the  great  soldier's  soul.  He  was  the  slave  of 
the  unknown.  Fouche  exulted.  He  saw  his  profit 
secure.  He  could  wield  the  power  of  fear.  All  Bona- 
parte's strength  was  at  his  order.  .  .  .  Bonaparte — 
the  fool!  So  thought  Fouche  while  he  worked  out  his 
lies.  .  .  .  He  had  finished  the  tale  some  time  before 
Bonaparte  answered.  .  .  .  "You  will  see  to  these  plots, 
Fouche." 

"It's  my  business  if  I  am  Bonaparte's  minister  of 
police.  Oh — one  thing  more.  There  is  a  bully  of  yours 
has  forced  a  quarrel  on  me.  It  won't  suit  you  now  for 
me  to  be  made  cold  meat  by  the  Captain  Barsac.  .  .  . 
Tell  him  so." 

Bonaparte  glared  at  him.  "You  will  take  a  humbler 
tone  with  me,  Fouche,  or " 

"When  you  are  king,  I'll  be  a  courtier."  Fouche 
grinned  and  went  out. 

Bonaparte  sat  with  his  chin  on  his  breast,  his  great 
brow  drawn,  his  hands  gripping  the  table,  while  he 
wrestled  with  thought  and  fear.  ...  It  was  long 
before  he  called  for  Jean  Dortan  and  demanded  Cap- 
tain Barsac.  When  Barsac  came,  Bonaparte  did  not 
see  him  at  once.  Barsac  sighed  audibly. 

Bonaparte  brushed  the  hair  back  from  his  brow  and 
looked  up.  "Ah,  Captain  Barsac.  You  have  forced  a 
quarrel  on  the  Citizen  Fouche?" 

"Do  not  thank  me,  general.     It  was  a  pleasure." 

"What  harm  has  he  done  you?" 

Barsac  yawned.      "His   existence  irritates   me,   my 


340  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

general.  Also,  I  want  to  annoy  the  devil.  So  I  am 
sending  him  Fouche." 

"You  are  not  amusing,  Captain  Barsac."  Bona- 
parte frowned.  "You  will  compose  this  quarrel." 

"Precisely,  general.     In  Fouche's  grave." 

"Enough,  sir!  Understand  me.  Fouche  is  my 
friend " 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  general." 

"I  command  you  to  make  him  yours." 

Barsac  shrugged.  There  was  something  of  a  sneer 
in  his  blue  eyes.  "It  happens  to  be  impossible,  sir." 

Bonaparte's  eyes  gleamed.  "You  defy  me,  Captain 
Barsac?"  he  cried. 

"The  fact  is,  sir,  I  am  attending  to  your  honour," 
said  Barsac  coolly.  "I  found  this  pig  Fouche  speak- 
ing ill  of  the  citizeness,  your  wife.  You  will  agree 
that  nothing  remains  but  to  kill  him." 

"You  are  suddenly  very  tender  of  my  honour," 
Bonaparte  sneered.  "You  will  only  meet  Fouch^  as  my 
friend." 

For  a  moment  Barsac  showed  his  surprise.  Then 
that  passed  into  contempt.  He  shook  his  head. 

"What,  sir?" 

"I  do  not  permit  men  to  insult  the  women  I  admire. 
You  are  different.  We  shall  not  understand  each  other, 
general." 

Bonaparte  let  out  an  oath.  "You  talk  of  your  hon- 
our for  women,  you  libertine,  you  debauchee — you " 

"I  am  human,  general,  whatever  you  are,"  cried 
Barsac.  He  was  flushed,  and  his  fingers  fidgeted  for 
his  sword.  "I  warn  you!" 

"You "  Bonaparte  stammered  with  wrath  in  a 

medley  of  words.  "The  guard!  Name  of  God!  The 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  341 

officer  of  the  guard !"  he  thundered,  and  when  the  man 
broke  in,  "Captain  Barsac  is  under  arrest!"  he  cried. 

"Because  General  Bonaparte  has  mislaid  his  hon- 
our," Barsac  sneered,  as  he  gave  up  his  sword. 

He  was  but  just  led  away  when  Jean  Dortan  bustled 
into  the  room.  "What  has  he  been  doing,  general?" 
said  he  briskly. 

Bonaparte  frowned.  "What  is  the  fool  to  you, 
Jean?" 

"He  saved  our  lives,"  quoth  Jean  Dortan.  "What 
has  he  done?" 

"He  would  not  obey  orders." 

Jean  Dortan  knew  Bonaparte  too  well  now  to  believe 
much  that  he  said.  "What  were  the  orders?"  he  asked. 

"Go  to  the  devil!"  said  Bonaparte,  and  turned  to 
his  papers. 

"That  means  you  are  ashamed  of  them,"  said  Jean 
Dortan  coolly.  He  studied  Bonaparte  a  while  with 
keen,  honest  eyes,  and  checked  himself  in  the  moment 
of  saying  something  and  went  out.  He  often  put  too 
high  a  value  on  silence. 

Bonaparte  alone  reviewed  his  position.  All  was  going 
well.  The  army  looked  devoted.  Lucien  had  a  strong 
party  on  the  Council.  There  was  nothing  to  fear  but 
those  dark  plots  against  himself.  And  Fouche 
answered  for  them.  Fouche  was  on  his  side  now.  He 
was  safe,  quite  safe.  .  .  .  But  that  night  Talleyrand 
came  to  him,  and  after  they  had  talked  of  Sieyes  and 
Lucien  and  the  Council,  "You  thought  Fouche  worth 
buying?"  Talleyrand  asked.  Bonaparte  nodded. 
"That  interests  me,"  said  Talleyrand,  looking  at  him 
curiously. 

"For  safety,"  said  Bonaparte.    Talleyrand  coughed. 


342  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Why,  you  said  yourself  Fouche  was  dangerous,"  cried 
Bonaparte. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  worth  while  to  be  quite  safe?"  said 
Talleyrand.  "One  pays  so  dear."  But  Bonaparte  did 
not  understand. 

The  conspiracy  prospered.  Sieyes  finished  his  con- 
stitution. It  was  saturated  with  elections.  The  people 
were  to  elect  representatives,  and  they  again  others, 
and  they  others  again  who  were  the  Council  of  State. 
What  the  Council  of  State  had  to  do  was  not  clear,  for 
the  First  Consul  had  power  to  do  everything,  and  the 
First  Consul — provisionally,  the  constitution  politely 
said — was  General  Bonaparte.  But  the  idea  of  so 
many  elections  captivated  Lucien's  republican  brain, 
and  he  answered  for  it  that  the  constitution  should  be 
popular.  The  ingenuity  of  Fouche  abolished  another 
chance  of  danger.  The  existing  Council  of  the  Direc- 
tory had  to  be  abolished.  It  might  obj  ect,  and  Jacobin 
Paris  support  it  in  contumacy.  Fouche  organised  a 
sham  riot,  which  so  frightened  the  worthy  councillors 
that  they  resolved  to  adjourn  to  St.  Cloud,  where  they 
might  have  the  protection  of  the  army.  So  they 
walked  into  the  trap.  Still  the  wise  Directory,  Gohier, 
Moulin,  and  the  rest,  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing. 

It  was  a  clear  autumn  night,  and  the  forest  shades 
loomed  blue-black  against  the  silver  flood  of  moonlight. 
The  sky  gleamed  with  stars.  Before  his  quarters  Bona- 
parte paced  to  and  fro  on  Jean  Dortan's  arm.  He 
felt  safe  enough,  for  Jean  Dortan's  strength  was 
proven,  and  his  sentries  had  been  doubled  since  Fouche's 
tale  of  plots.  He  loved  such  hours  beneath  the  stars. 

It  happened,  unfortunately,  that  night,  that  Cap- 
tain Barsac  had  an  engagement  with  a  Mademoiselle 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  343 

Duthe,  who  mattered  nothing  then  and  matters  nothing 
now.  He  had  sent  by  the  officer  of  the  guard  a  message 
to  Bonaparte  saying  that  Captain  Barsac  offered  his 
compliments  and  would  be  glad  of  leave  to  finish  a  very 
respectable  amour.  But  the  man  conceived  it  a  kind- 
ness to  Barsac  to  keep  the  message  to  himself,  and  so 
no  answer  came.  Barsac  was  not  the  man  to  disap- 
point a  woman  for  such  a  trifle  as  imprisonment.  As 
soon  as  the  night  guard  was  mounted  and  all  quiet, 
Captain  Barsac  squeezed  his  body  through  the  window- 
bars  and  dropped  to  the  ground.  He  cursed  the  moon- 
light in  a  hearty  whisper,  but  he  knew  well  enough 
where  the  sentries  should  be,  and  he  went  warily. 

Silent  Bonaparte  walked,  looking  often  at  the 
splendours  of  the  northern  sky.  He  had  new  plans  of 
empire  now.  Now  it  was  to  be  Europe  first,  and  first 
England.  The  sea  power  that  had  thwarted  him  once 
and  again  was  to  be  crushed,  the  race  of  shopkeepers 
bled  white  to  feed  his  arms.  Then  for  the  worn-out 
kingdoms  of  the  mainland.  The  stupid  barriers  of  race 
must  be  battered  down  and  all  Europe  welded  into  one 
people.  Then  to  launch  the  West  upon  the  East  and 
conquer  a  world  empire.  .  .  .  That  would  be  enough 
even  for  his  strength.  .  .  . 

He  had  halted,  he  was  gazing  up  at  the  sky.  Under 
Sirius  he  saw  a  tiny  point  of  reddish  light.  He  gripped 
Jean  Dortan's  arm  fiercely.  "See !"  he  cried,  "see !  It 
is  my  own  star!"  Jean  Dortan  looked  and  grunted. 
But  Bonaparte  gazed  wide-eyed  and  his  breath  came 
fast.  .  .  .  He  believed  in  it.  ...  It  was  the  light  of 
the  world-fate  aglow  for  him. 

"Halt,  there!"  The  challenge  rang  clear.  Captain 
Barsac,  who  did  not  know  the  sentries  were  doubled, 


3441  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

had  tried  to  slip  through  where  a  gap  should  be,  and 
found  none.  "Halt,  there!  The  countersign!"  But 
Captain  Barsac  ran  at  his  best  speed.  The  sentry 
flung  up  his  musket  and  fired.  Captain  Barsac  fell 
down  on  his  face. 

Bonaparte  turned,  and  the  light  of  the  star  was  still 
in  his  eyes — turned  and  saw  the  dead.  .  .  .  He  swayed 
on  Jean  Dortan's  arm,  he  caught  at  his  throat.  "My 
God !"  he  muttered  hoarsely,  "what  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  a  dead  man,"  said  Jean  Dortan,  and  dis- 
engaged himself. 

"My  star,"  cried  Bonaparte,  and  flung  his  hand  to 
heaven.  .  .  .  "Again  .  .  .  again.  .  .  ."  With  un- 
equal steps  he  made  his  way  to  the  dead. 

Jean  Dortan  was  there.  The  guard  were  running 
up.  Jean  Dortan  rose  and  dropped  his  handkerchief 
across  his  face.  "It  is  your  Captain  Barsac,"  he  said. 

Bonaparte  bent  down,  lifted  the  handkerchief  and 
looked — there  was  something  of  a  sneer  beneath  the 
ugly  wound  that  hid  the  eyes.  "He  has  his  deserts," 
said  Bonaparte.  Jean  Dortan  turned  away.  "Here! 
Jean!  I  want  you." 

"You  are  sometimes  too  much  for  me,"  said  Jean 
Dortan,  and  went  off. 

Bonaparte  stood  alone  by  the  dead.  Again  he  looked 
up  at  his  star;  then  turned,  and  slowly,  alone,  his 
head  bent,  he  walked  back  through  the  moonlight.  .  .  . 
It  was  not  the  fate  of  Captain  Barsac  that  kept  him 
pacing  his  room  till  the  sky  was  yellow  at  dawn.  The 
death  of  men  who  had  saved  him  never  broke  his  rest. 
But  again  that  grim  union  of  his  star  and  a  vision  of 
death  wrought  and  wracked  his  mind.  He  went  in  fear 
of  mystery.  He  was  the  slave  of  wild  fancies.  He 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  345 

trembled  at  he  knew  not  what.  Ill  at  ease  with  the 
world,  he  suspected  its  heart  malign.  He  felt  vague 
forces  he  could  not  grasp  or  guide,  and  he  cowered. 

In  the  morning  he  had  to  throw  the  dice  for  power. 
The  Council  had  to  appoint  him  Consul  and  abolish 
themselves.  Lucien  had  done  his  best  with  the  Council, 
but  many  of  them  were  against  him — they  doubted 
Bonaparte,  they  loved  the  profitable  Directory,  they 
loved  their  own  importance.  Bonaparte  risked  as  little 
as  he  could.  His  troops  were  massed  about  the  Cha- 
teau of  St.  Cloud.  When  the  Council  assembled  in  the 
Orangery,  Le  Clerc's  grenadiers  marched  up  to  the 
doors. 

But  when  the  Council  saw  the  shakoes  and  bayonets 
at  their  door  all  was  tumult.  Lucien  tried  to  speak  and 
foe  and  friend.  All  was  lost  in  the  din:  "Live  the 
Constitution !  Live  Liberty !  Down  with  the  Dictator ! 
The  Constitution  or  Death!  Live  Sacred  Fraternity! 
Live  the  Council!  Live!  Live!"  So  the  storm  raged, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  came  Bonaparte  himself,  Bona- 
parte in  his  grey  coat,  his  head  sunken  a  little,  pallid, 
his  eyes,  dark-ringed,  looking  right  on.  Behind  him 
tramped  four  grenadiers.  He  was  risking  nothing. 

On  the  tribune  he  took  his  stand,  and  the  shouting 
died.  "Citizens,"  he  cried,  "you  stand  over  a  volcano. 
Let  a  soldier  tell  the  truth  frankly.  I  was  quiet  in  my 
home  when  this  Council  summoned  me  to  action.  I 
obeyed.  I  wield  the  sword  of  my  country  for  her  glory. 
I  swear  that  France  holds  no  more  devoted  patriot. 

Dangers  surround  us.  Liberty "  he  faltered.  His 

lips  moved  still,  but  made  no  clear  sound.  He  flung 
out  his  arms  and  seemed  to  point  at  nothing.  He  saw 
again  in  the  midst  his  star,  the  vision  of  death.  .  .  . 


346  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"Liberty!"  Arena  the  Corsican  took  up  the  cry. 
"Liberty!"  The  name  chokes  him.  "Down  with  the 
Dictator!  Down  with  Bonaparte!"  and  he  rushed  to 
the  tribune,  while  the  Council  broke  out:  "Down  with 
the  Dictator!  Down  with  the  tyrant!"  and  at  last 
there  sounded  that  terrible  cry  of  the  Terror,  "Hors 
la  loi!  Hors  la  loi!"  Arena  caught  Bonaparte,  and 
others  tore  at  his  limbs  and  began  to  drag  him  from 
the  tribune.  His  grenadiers  broke  in  and  rescued  him. 
"Out!  Get  me  out!"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  and  swollen.  The  grenadiers  thrust  through 
the  councillors  to  the  door,  and  Lucien  and  his  party 
followed  swiftly,  for  already  the  cry,  "Hors  la  loi!"  had 
quelled  all  else,  and  Arena  was  on  the  tribune  moving 
the  decree  of  outlawry. 

Outside,  the  soldiers  were  swaying  disorderly,  mut- 
tering of  what  it  meant;  and  when  they  saw  Bona- 
parte, his  livid  face,  his  eyes,  as  of  a  man  with  the 
palsy,  the  ranks  were  broken  and  the  regiment  a  chat- 
tering mob.  Murat  and  Le  Clerc  ran  to  their  general, 
fiercely  asking  for  orders. 

But  Bonaparte  could  not  speak. 

His  fate  was  on  a  razor  edge.  A  moment  more  and 
the  soldiers  had  scattered.  It  was  Lucien  who  sprang 
on  a  horse,  the  respectable  Lucien,  who  thundered  out, 
"Soldiers,  the  Council  is  betraying  the  Republic.  If 
my  brother  were  a  tyrant,"  he  plucked  out  his  sword, 
"this  blade  should  be  first  in  his  breast.  I  call  upon 
you  in  the  name  of  France,  in  the  name  of  Lib- 
erty, Equality,  Fraternity,  abolish  the  Council  of 
traitors." 

The  soldiers  began  to  cheer,  and  Murat,  turning 
impatiently  from  the  helpless  Bonaparte,  cried:  "The 


HOW  HE  WON  HIS  THRONE  347 

drums,  name  of  God,  the  drums !"  and  at  the  roll  of  the 
drums  the  regiment  formed  again. 

"Forward,  grenadiers !"  cried  Lucien  the  republican. 
It  was  the  end  of  the  Revolution. 

The  grenadiers  marched  into  the  hall.  The  cham- 
pions of  liberty  had  no  mind  to  face  the  bayonets. 
They  tore  off  their  scarfs  of  office  and  scrambled  over 
one  another  to  get  out  of  the  windows,  while  the  grena- 
diers fired  at  them  volleys  of  laughter. 

Lucien  and  his  party  went  back  to  the  hall  and  swiftly 
made  outlaws  of  those  who  had  fled  and  swiftly  estab- 
lished the  new  constitution  and  abolished  themselves. 

But  Bonaparte  stood  without,  stood  alone,  silent  and 
still.  .  .  .  Lucien  came  to  him  at  last:  "I  salute  the 
First  Consul  of  France !"  he  cried. 

The  First  Consul  of  France  turned  to  him  a  livid 
face  and  dull  eyes.  Trembled  ....  struggled  to 
speak.  .  .  .  "It  is  my  star"  .  .  .  and  he  fainted  in 
Lucien's  arms.  .  .  .  He  had  won  power.  .  .  , 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOW   HE  CAME  TO  THE   SEA 

THE  murderous  mad  welter  of  the  Revolution  was 
still.  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity — all  that  was  a  dream 
of  yesterday.  France  had  a  master  again.  The  whole 
duty  of  man  was  to  obey  Bonaparte.  For  that  first 
noble  vision  of  a  nation  of  freemen  and  friends  he 
gave  them  the  hope  of  glory.  He  himself  had  nothing 
better  to  live  for.  So  blind,  he  made  them  blind,  and 
led  them  on.  I  suppose  he  was  never  a  moment  happy. 

First  Consul  in  name,  lord  of  all  France  in  fact,  he 
was  making  ready  new  war.  "My  power,"  he  would  say, 
"my  power  is  built  on  glory,  and  my  glory  on  victories. 
Battle  and  victory  have  made  me  great"  (this  was  some- 
thing of  an  attitude) .  "  Battle  and  victory  must  maintain 
me."  England  annoyed  him.  England  had  baulked 
him  of  that  Empire  in  the  East  of  which  from  boyhood 
he  had  dreamed,  for  which  he  longed  till  death.  England 
mocked  at  him  with  her  insular  might.  And  so,  while 
still  he  promised  peace,  from  the  Seine  to  the  Rhine  he 
made  "a  coast  of  iron  and  bronze,"  a  coast  that  swarmed 
with  gunboats  and  soldiery.  Hither  and  thither  he 
went,  spurring  on  engineer  and  shipwright  and  sailor, 
urging  toil  upon  toil  in  fierce  inhuman  activity. 

He  had  always  to  be  doing  something.  Since  the 
hour  when  love  died  in  him  he  was  afraid  of  himself. 
He  had  lost  all  the  joy  of  life,  all  the  kindly  pleasure  of 
being  a  man  among  men.  He  could  not  dare  rest  and 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          349 

think  of  himself  as  he  was  or  fancy  what  he  would  be 
in  the  days  to  come.  He  chose  the  coarsest  pleasures 
of  an  animal  before  that.  Seeing  the  dismal  life  of 
his  soul,  remembering  what  like  he  was — it  was  that 
which  wrung  from  him  the  cry  that  puzzled  Bourrienne. 
"I  am  in  torment!  In  torment!  I  must  on!  On!" 
Action  alone  could  numb  the  misery  of  him. 

The  mellow  sunshine  of  late  spring  was  falling  on 
the  white  forest  of  tents  that  clothed  the  hill  of  Biauville. 
Away  on  the  lower  ground  by  the  sea  Soult  had  his 
divisions  at  drill.  In  a  space  apart  on  the  hilltop  where 
a  sentry  paced  stood  a  tent  larger  than  the  common.  Be- 
fore it  a  silver  eagle  flashed  in  the  sun,  and  by  the  eagle 
a  square,  swarthy  man  in  grey  plain  clothes  sat  cross- 
legged  smoking,  much  at  his  ease.  To  the  tent  came  a 
lean  fellow,  gorgeously  clad.  His  hair  was  fox-colour, 
and  he  walked  sideways — that  M.  Fouche,  regicide  and 
chief  of  police.  You  see  the  haggard  red  face  smile  as  he 
goes  in.  Then  there  are  murmurs  of  talk,  and  some- 
times Bonaparte's  bronze  voice  rings  passionately,  and 
the  gentle  murmur  goes  on  again. 

M.  Fouche  came  out  smiling  still,  and  sidled  away 
through  the  tents  to  Biauville  where  he  had  his  quarters. 
He  was  not  the  man  to  sleep  in  the  wind  when  he  could 
get  behind  a  wall.  The  cross-legged  man,  Jean  Dortan, 
blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  after  him.  When  he  was  fairly 
gone  Bonaparte  came  out. 

Bonaparte's  head  was  sunken,  he  carried  one  shoulder 
higher  than  the  other,  and  his  mouth  was  twitching  from 
left  to  right.  Fumbling  in  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat 
he  drew  out  a  tortoise-shell  snuff-box.  He  took  a  great 
pinch  in  his  fingers,  smelt  it,  threw  it  away,  and  so  did 
again,  and  again,  and  again.  Then  he  gave  his  shoulders 


350  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

a  shake,  and  straightened  himself.  For  the  first  time 
he  seemed  to  see  what  was  about  him.  He  strode  up  to 
Jean  Dortan,  and  stirred  that  broad  back  with  his  foot. 
"Big  Jean!  Give  me  your  arm."  For  all  his  weight 
Jean  Dortan  was  on  his  feet  in  one  movement.  He 
shook  out  the  dottle  of  his  pipe,  thrust  the  pipe  into  his 
breast,  and  turned  to  Bonaparte.  Bonaparte  linked 
arms  with  him  and  hurried  him  on  as  fast  as  a  man  need 
want  to  walk. 

Down  the  hill  to  landward  they  went,  through  the  sil- 
ver and  green  of  a  beech  wood  and  out  over  meadows 
spangled  with  gold  and  fragrant — on  and  on  and  on. 
"What  devil  is  riding  you,  my  captain?"  quoth  Jean 
Dortan. 

"What  do  you  know  of  devils?"  growled  Bonaparte. 

"Who  knows  you  meet  a  many,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 
He  glanced  at  Bonaparte's  grim  eyes.  "Humph!  I 
suppose  it  was  that  M.  Fouche.  He  makes  me  want  to 
spit  on  him,  that  M.  Fouche." 

"Fouche  is  a  wise  man.  He  wants  no  friends.  And 
means  me  to  have  none,  I  think.  He  has  some  damnable 
truth  against  every  one.  Talleyrand  is  two-faced, 
Bourrienne  a  thief — bah!  fire  is  hot  and  water  is  wet. 
My  wife  has  a  lover — one  more  or  less,  does  it  matter  ? 
It  is  my  brothers  now — Louis  is  spreading  an  infamy 
about  me,  and  Joseph  and  Lucien  are  making  eyes  at 
England.  Yes'  It  is  a  world  of  fools  that  are  knaves. 
I  know  well  I  have  not  one  friend.  Friendship!  that  is  a 
name.  Madmen  worship  it.  I  have  no  one,  and  grip 
the  world." 

"You  are  sometimes  very  little,  my  captain,"  said 
Jean  Dortan  coolly. 

"You — I  wonder  why  you  stay  by  me.    You  are  not 


351 


afraid  of  me.     You  never  ask  for  anything.     You  could 
earn  more  than  I  pay  you." 

"Don't  you  want  me?"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

Bonaparte  looked  into  his  eyes.  "You  who  never  get 
anything  of  me — yes,  I  want  you  more  than  anything. " 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  stay,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

"You  are  greatly  loyal,  my  big  Jean,"  said  Bonaparte 
with  enthusiasm.  Jean  Dortan  grunted.  Bonaparte 
walked  more  slowly.  His  cold  eyes  began  to  smile. 
"  Well !  I  have  power.  I  can  get  more  power,  and  more. 
I  shall  do  greater  deeds  in  the  world  than  a  man  has  ever 
done  before  I  come  to  the  end.  I  shall  conquer " 

"What  is  the  good  of  it?"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

Bonaparte  shrugged   his   right  shoulder.   "What   is 
the  good  of  life?" 

"That  is  what  you  don't  understand,"  said  Jean 
Dortan  with  composure.  "To  make  the  wheat  grow 
for  your  children  and  feel  the  wind  blowing  through 
sunshine,  there  is  nothing  better  than  that. " 

"You  talk  like  a  peasant,  big  Jean,"  said  Bonaparte 
with  a  sneer. 

"The  peasants  are  wiser  than  you,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 
"They  know  what's  real  in  the  world.  They  are  in  tune 
with  it.  Do  you  feel  the  spring  in  the  air,  my  captain?" 

"I  am  not  a  boy,"  Bonaparte  snarled. 

"The  worse  for  you.  Yes,  you  have  always  been  old, 
my  captain.  I  wonder  what  you  sold  your  youth  for." 

"For  a  little  sense,  Jean."  They  had  come  down 
through  a  spinney  of  birch  to  an  orchard  white  and  fra- 
grant. Among  the  trees  a  girl  was  feeding  her  chickens. 

"There  is  one  who  knows  more  than  you,"  said  Jean 
Dortan. 

She  was  a  sturdy  lass,  but  womanly  enough  in  her  close 


352  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

grey  jersey.  The  sunlight  shot  her  brown  hair  with  gold. 
Sun  and  wind  had  made  her  cheeks  darkly  mellow  like 
a  peach,  but  below  her  neck  was  white  as  the  white 
kerchief  about  it.  Jean  Dortan,  I  fancy,  thanked  God  for 
all.  She  pleased  Bonaparte  as  a  sleek  horse  pleased  him. 

"Here,  child!"  he  called. 

She  looked  at  them  a  moment,  flung  her  last  handfuls 
of  grain  to  the  chicks,  and  came  leisurely.  She  made 
a  little  curtsy  to  Bonaparte,  another,  a  half-inch  lower, 
to  Jean  Dortan,  and  looked  Bonaparte  frankly  in  the  eye. 

He  took  her  chin  between  finger  and  thumb  and  tilted 
her  face  against  the  light.  Then  he  patted  her  cheek. 
"Humph,  I  suppose  some  man  owns  all  this,"  said  he. 

"It  is  certainly  not  Your  Excellency,"  said  the  girl 
coldly,  and  drew  out  of  his  reach. 

"I  could  pay  high  for  it,  child." 

The  girl  drew  farther  back.  "Pay!"  she  said,  in  a 
low,  scornful  voice,  "Your  Excellency  thinks  very  well 
of  me." 

"Oh,  the  best  of  us  can  be  bought,  child.  You  are 
well  enough.  Have  the  sense  to  sell  yourself  for  some- 
thing worth  having. " 

"I  thank  Your  Excellency" — her  curtsy  was  minute — 
"I  had  rather  be  my  own  woman." 

"A  woman  has  no  right  to  be  her  own,"  said  Bona- 
parte. "You  must  be  a  man's  servant,  and  nurse  his 
children."  The  girl  looked  proudly.  "What!  Is  that 
not  enough  for  you  ?" 

"I  will  tell  the  man  who  has  the  right  to  ask,"  said 
the  girl. 

"And  what  like  must  your  man  be  ?" 

"To  Your  Excellency,"  says  the  girl  meekly,  "I 
could  not  aspire." 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          353 

Some  one  was  whistling  hard  by.  Bonaparte,  to  whom 
all  music  was  one,  did  not  know  the  tune,  but  Jean  Dor- 
tan  did,  and  it  surprised  him.  For  it  was  no  less  than  an 
English  sailor's  song: 

Now  farewell  to  you,  ye  fine  Spanish  ladies, 
Now  farewell  to  you,  ye  ladies  of  Spain; 

For  we've  received  orders  to  sail  for  old  England, 
And  perhaps  we  may  never  more  see  you  again. 

Jean  Dortan  strode  to  the  hedge  and  looked  over  it. 
The  whistling  stopped.  He  could  see  no  one. 

Bonaparte,  who  did  not  approve  of  people  mocking 
him,  had  taken  a  quick  step  forward  and  pinched  the 
girl's  ear  and  her  bare  brown  arm.  He  stared  into  her 
eyes — grey  eyes,  calm  with  the  mysterious  wisdom  of 
pure  womanhood. 

"Why  not  me,  girl?"  he  asked  harshly.  "I  might 
be  pleased  with  you.  You  are  prettily  plump,  and 
wholesome  red  and  white.  A  man  would  be  sure  he 
had  not  to  do  with  a  spirit  in  you." 

The  girl  freed  herself.  There  was  wonder  and  con- 
tempt in  the  curve  of  her  lip.  She  had  flushed  in  proud 
anger.  Jean  Dortan,  returning,  glowered  at  Bonaparte. 
"In  fact  you  do  not  know  much  about  the  spirit,  my 
captain,"  said  he. 

"Your  Excellency  seems  to  want  to  make  people 
unhappy,"  the  girl  cried,  and  turned  swiftly  and  left  him. 

Bonaparte  frowned  after  her  as  long  as  she  was  in 
sight.  Then  he  turned  and  met  Jean  Dortan 's  eyes. 

"I  said  she  knew  more  about  life  than  you,"  said 
Jean  Dortan  coolly. 

"Go  to  the  devil1"  cried  Bonaparte,  and  turned  to 
hurry  back. 


354  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"You  are  always  the  leader,"  said  Jean  Dortan,  and 
followed. 

Again  Bonaparte  was  off  at  the  wild  pace  he  always 
used  to  ease  his  fretted  brain.  The  girl  had  set  him 
at  odds  with  himself  again.  There  was  in  her  an  in- 
finity of  things  that  irked  him.  The  content  of  her, 
the  silent  claim  to  a  knowledge  of  what  must  be  ever 
out  of  his  sight,  the  simple  purity  that  shrank  from  his 
touch,  and  his  eyes — all  that  roused  him  to  an  anger 
in  which  there  was  something  to  fear. 

He  despised  all  women  because  he  could  love  none. 
And  at  whiles  hated  himself  for  it,  for  knowing  no  passion 
but  an  animal's. 

Now  this  girl  and  her  womanhood  stung  his  brain. 
He  felt  a  power  with  which  the  vast  power  in  him  could 
not  grapple — a  power  that  evaded  and  mocked  him, 
that  worked  subtly  in  hidden  ways  yet  availed  as  much 
as  the  ordered  crash  of  strength  which  he  could  make 
and  guide.  That  alien  power  was  in  her,  and  she — she 
was  atune  with  the  world.  What  of  himself,  then? 
"You  want  to  make  people  unhappy."  Spite  of  all 
glory  and  man-staggering  deeds  was  that  the  last  judg- 
ment on  him?  .  .  .  "You  want  to  make  people  un- 
happy." 

Suddenly  he  broke  out  in  a  torrent  of  words.  "Jean, 
big  Jean,  I  will  do  such  things  as  the  world  has  never  seen. 
I  will  beat  down  these  stupid  tyrant  kings  and  nobles 
and  set  the  people  free.  I  will  have  our  Revolution  every- 
where. To  England  first,  with  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
and  strike  at  the  aristocrats  and  give  their  wealth  to  the 
people.  So  with  the  rest.  I  will  make  an  Empire  of 
Europe,  all  one  vast  realm,  with  no  stupid  neighbours' 
quarrels  to  waste  life.  And  all  men  shall  be  equal,  and 


355 


each  man  shall  have  his  chance.  We  will  have  no  fools 
fattening  on  the  wise.  Justice  for  every  man,  and  order 
and  no  waste,  so  that  we  give  a  decent  life  to  every  babe. 
I  will  do  it  and  make  a  name  next  to  God's,  I  will  set 
myself  next  to  God,  and  as  God  they  shall  honour  me, 
these  peoples." 

"Humph!  You  will  not  want  me,  then,"  quoth 
Jean  Dortan. 

Bonaparte  gripped  his  arm  and  stood  still,  staring 
into  his  eyes.  "There  is  only  you,  Jean,"  he  said  in 
another  voice,  and  he  held  Jean  Dortan 's  arm  close  as 
he  walked  on,  more  slowly  now,  to  the  camp. 

M.  Fouche  was  waiting  for  him  in  front  of  his 
tent.  "Again,  Fouche?"  said  Bonaparte  without 
joy,  and  Fouche  smiled.  Jean  Dortan  was  drawing 
back  with  celerity,  but,  "Stay  with  me,  Jean,"  Bonaparte 
insisted. 

"He  gives  me  an  indigestion,  this  M.  Fouche,"  Jean 
Dortan  grumbled;  but  he  stayed. 

Fouche,  little  eyes  glittering  in  a  red  face,  began  his 
tale:  "Moved  by  my  anxious  fears  for  the  safety  of  the 
First  Consul  and  my  solicitude  for " 

"Ah,  bah,  leave  out  all  that.  You  are  not  such  a 
fool  as  to  suppose  that  I  am  a  fool." 

Fouche  bowed  to  the  compliment  and  came  briefly 
to  business.  "In  fine,  sir,  I  have  had  the  countryside, 
and  in  particular  the  coastward  countryside,  patrolled 
and  watched  with  pains."  He  stopped  for  applause; 
he  was  greedy  of  that  as  a  child.  Bonaparte  nodded. 
"Having  in  regard  the  incitements  to  murder  in  the 
English  prints —  '  he  paused  to  take  snuff,  and  over 
the  box  watched  Bonaparte  shift  uneasily.  "I  have 
of  late  made  special  provisions,  bringing  to  the  district 


356  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

employes  of  my  ministry  who  have  had  experience  in 

London.  Among  them "  he  looked  craftily  at  Jean 

Dortan,  then  back  at  Bonaparte,  and  his  eyelids  flickered. 
"I  must  be  discreet  in  society.  Among  them — Number 
Seven,"  and  he  smiled  at  Jean  Dortan. 

Jean  Dortan  started  up.  "M.  Fouche  does  not  want 
me.  And  I  am  sure  I  never  wanted  M.  Fouche. "  Out 
he  went,  and  sat  down  on  the  turf  outside  and  lit  his 
placid  pipe. 

Fouche  went  blandly  on.  "It  is  Mehee,  then,  who 
reports  that  in  the  gloaming  last  night  he  had  a  glimpse 
of  an  old  friend  of  ours,  Master  Wild,  the  English  spy, 
who  did  us  the  honour  of  planning  Cadoudal's  plot  and 
Pichegru's.  Now  he  comes  to  France  himself  instead 
of  sending  assassins;  so  he  would  seem  to  be  more  earnest 
to  murder  Your  Excellency. " 

The  veins  in  Bonaparte's  temples  swelled  dark.  He 
started  up.  "Am  I  a  dog  to  be  beaten  to  death  on  the 
road?"  he  cried  hoarsely.  Then  turning  to  Fouche: 
"Have  you  caught  him?  Have  you  caught  him?" 
His  chest  was  heaving  wildly,  his  hands  unsteady.  It 
was  always  so.  The  man  who  knew  no  fear  in  the  midst 
of  battle  or  in  grand  design  was  caught  by  panic  at  hint 
of  an  ambushed  danger.  Fouche's  little  eyes  twinkled  at 
him  joyfully.  "Have  you  caught  him?"  he  cried 
again. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Fouche  calmly. 

"Why  not,  then?  What  are  you  paid  for?  What  are 
your  spies  kept  for  ?  Is  my  life  to  be  for  the  hand  of  any 
ruffian  ?  Here,  Jean,  Jean!"  He  paced  feverishly  to  and 
fro,  and,  when  Jean  Dortan  came,  gripped  his  arm  and 
held  it  close  and  stood  still  so,  with  the  big  man  against  him. 

Fouche    smiled.     They    say    that   he    invented    these 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          357 

plots  of  murder  to  make  Bonaparte  believe  him  neces- 
sary. It  is  so,  doubtless;  but  also  I  think  he  liked  to 
see  Bonaparte  frightened.  "Your  Excellency  treats  these 
dangers  too  lightly,"  said  Fouche.  "We  have  as  yet 
no  knowledge  of  where  this  fellow  is  lurking,  but  I  am 
making  a  search  by  system,  and  if  he  is  within  twenty 
miles  of  Biauville,  I  shall  have  him  to-night." 

Bonaparte,  who  was  something  calmer,  turned  on  him 
with  a  sharp  light  in  the  grey  eyes.  "It  had  best  be  so, 
Fouche." 

"I  see  Your  Excellency's  anxiety.  It  shall  be  so." 
He  bowed  and  went  out. 

Jean  Dortan  directed  eyes  of  no  admiration  on 
Bonaparte.  "So  you  have  been  letting  M.  Fouche 
frighten  you  again,"  he  said,  and  shrugged. 

Bonaparte  relinquished  his  arm  and  adopted  a  grand 
attitude.  "Fear?  You  have  seen  me  at  Toulon,  at  Lodi. 
Did  I  fear  then  ?  No,  Jean.  It  is  not  for  myself 's  sake  I 
care  for  life.  It  is  for  France,  for  the  world.  Go;  bid 
Bourrienne  come,  and  Berthier." 

Jean  Dortan  went,  and  as  he  went  saw  Bonaparte 
looking  round  the  canvas  of  the  tent  to  make  sure  that 
the  sentry  was  watchful. 

Sitting  safe  between  his  secretary  and  his  chief  of  the 
staff,  Bonaparte  worked  on  his  plans  for  the  downfall 
of  England — the  lure  for  the  English  fleets,  the  feint 
at  Ireland,  the  deadly  blow  at  London — the  most  grandly 
daring  of  all  his  daring  work. 

Jean  Dortan  went  off  down  the  hill  through  the 
fragrance  of  the  May  sunshine.  Again  he  came  past 
that  spinney  of  birch  to  the  orchard,  came  on  now  to 
the  white  farmhouse  beyond.  The  girl  sat  by  the  door- 
way between  budding  roses,  and  her  spinning-wheel 


358  THE  GOD  OF  CLAYi 

was  swift.  There  was  a  man,  a  sleek  fellow  of  beady 
black  eyes  lounging  at  her  side.  She  looked  up  at  Jean 
Dortan's  step  with  something  of  anxiety. 

"Be  of  good  cheer,  Marie,  I  am  alone  this  time," 
quoth  Jean  Dortan. 

"I  shall  not  forgive  you  for  not  being  alone  before," 
said  the  girl  gravely. 

"I  infer,"  said  the  man  at  her  side,  "I  infer  that  I 
am  the  third  and  de  trop.  It  is  not  dignified,"  and  he 
was  going. 

"No,  indeed,  sir,  I " 

"Oh,  believe  me,  mademoiselle,  monsieur  will  like 
me  very  much  better  away.  And  perhaps  you  will  not 
like  me  worse."  He  was  gone  into  the  house. 

"Who  is  it?"  Jean  Dortan  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"It  is  M.  van  Bosch,  of  Liege,  who  is  here  to  make 
a  contract  with  my  brother  for  the  wool  crop."  Having 
thus  exhausted  that  subject,  she  looked  frankly  at  Jean 
Dortan.  Jean  Dortan  looked  frankly  at  her.  She  went 
on  spinning  in  a  sudden  fervour. 

Jean  Dortan,  very  large  and  very  square,  took  his 
stand  by  her.  He  shifted  his  weight  from  one  leg  to  the 
other.  He  grunted  eloquently. 

"You  are  perhaps  saying  something?"  said  the  girl 
in  meek  malice. 

"I  think  I  do  nothing  worse  than  talking,"  Jean 
Dortan  confessed;  "and  I  talk  to  nobody  worse  than 
you." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  at  least,"  the  girl  murmured. 

"In  fact  Marie" — Jean  Dorton  having  found  some- 
thing he  wanted  to  say,  blurted  it  out  in  a  hurry — 
"in  fact,  I  am  sorry  the  Little  Corporal  hurt  you.  I 
did  not  mean  that." 


359 

"Oh,  but  he  is  piteous,  you  know,"  the  girl  cried. 
"Does  he  know  nothing  of  the  good  things?" 

"I  think  he'll  never  know  much,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

"But  you  like  him?"  she  asked,  with  wondering  eyes. 
"You  are  his  friend?" 

Jean  Dortan  appeared  to  be  in  travail  with  a  thought. 

"It  is  perhaps  that  one  is  still  a  friend  when  one  does 
not  like,  because  one  can  help,"  and  he  looked  at  Marie 
diffidently  to  see  what  she  thought  of  that  speculation. 

Marie's  grey  eyes  darkened  in  tenderness.  Swiftly 
she  turned  from  Jean  Dortan.  .  .  .  The  wind  came  about 
her  with  the  breath  of  that  delicate  pageant  in  the  orchard. 
She  saw  its  mingled  delights,  faint  pink  and  white  and 
grey  and  green.  "Ah,  so  good,  so  glad  a  world!"  she 
cried,  and  her  full  lips  parted  in  a  tiny  smile. 

Jean  Dortan  put  his  hand  on  her  hair  with  a  clumsy 
caress. 

She  bent  in  a  hurry  over  her  spinning-wheel. 

Jean  Dortan  stood  very  close  to  her.  .  .  .  He  grunted 
from  time  to  time.  His  large  swarthy  face  exhibited 
perfect  bliss. 

The  shadows  were  dark  before  he  moved.  Then  she 
looked  up  to  him  again.  Through  the  gloom  each  saw 
the  other's  eyes.  "Humph, "said  Jean  Dortan.  "Till 
to-morrow,  then,  Marie. " 

"Till  to-morrow,  Jean,"  said  Marie  in  a  low  voice. 

Jean  Dortan  started.  She  had  never  said  as  much  be- 
fore. He  tried  to  make  the  right  answer.  But  in  fear  of 
her  boldness  she  fled. 

Jean  Dortan  strode  off  drunk  with  joy. 

That  respectable  wool  merchant,  M.  van  Bosch,  of 
Liege,  who  had  observed  these  very  tender  passages 
through  the  window,  grinned  at  the  world.  "Every 


360  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

man  has  his  own  way  of  it,"  said  he.  "But  his  would 
leave  me  hungry. " 

"Pardon,  monsieur?"  said  Marie. 

"I  was  giving  you  joy,  my  dear,"  said  M.  van  Bosch, 
and  left  her  in  blushes.  He  met  her  brother  Paul  re- 
turning from  the  lambs.  With  the  brother  he  walked  to 
and  fro  in  the  gloaming  discussing  the  wool  crop  till 
supper  was  ready.  And  as  he  walked  a  man,  invisible 
behind  the  hedge,  surveyed  him  with  minute  care. 

Jean  Dorton,  on  his  way  back  to  the  camp,  was  passed 
by  a  man  in  a  great  hurry.  Jean  Dorton  knew  him 
for  one  of  Fouche's  spies,  and  spat.  When  he  came  to 
Bonaparte's  tent,  there  inside  was  M.  Fouche.  He 
spat  again  and  went  over  to  sup  with  the  sergeant's  mess 
of  the  Consular  Guard.  From  which  he  was  called  before 
he  had  eaten  his  fill  to  attend  Bonaparte. 

In  the  hall  of  the  farmhouse,  M.  van  Bosch  sat  at  sup- 
per with  Paul  and  Marie.  They  had  come  to  the  baked 
apples  when  M.  van  Bosch  checked  his  eating  suddenly 
and  put  his  head  on  one  side  to  listen.  Then,  without 
a  sound,  he  went  to  the  window  and  peered  out.  Paul 
and  Marie,  who  had  heard  nothing,  looked  at  each  other 
in  surprise.  When  M.  van  Bosch  turned  his  sleek  face 
was  alert.  He  went  out  into  the  kitchen,  to  the  home  of 
the  hams  and  the  herbs  and  the  pump. 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?"  cried  Paul  Desaignes,  and  he 
started  up,  and  Marie. 

"Silence!"  hissed  M.  van  Bosch.  He  was  by  the 
back  door  with  his  ear  to  the  ground. 

Brother  and  sister  approached  him  on  tiptoe,  utterly 
amazed.  "But  what  is  it?"  Paul  whispered. 

M.  van  Bosch  arose.  "It  is, "  said  he  in  a  swift  whisper, 
"that  you  must  swear  I  went  out  after  dinner  and  have 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          361 

not  yet  returned."  He  came  in  one  springing  stride  to 
the  pump  and  jerked  up  the  trap-door  by  it  that  covered 
the  well.  "Away!  Abolish  my  plate,  my  knife,  all  trace 
of  me.  On  your  lives!"  Sliding  by  the  pipe  of  the 
pump,  down  the  well  he  went. 

Paul  and  Marie  stared  at  each  other  distraught  .  .  . 
From  the  front  of  the  house  came  a  sudden  sharp  noise- 
beyond  doubt  the  clash  of  steel.  They  darted  back  to 
the  hall  to  see  what  it  was,  and  peered  out  of  the  window. 
Then  M.  van  Bosch  without  a  sound  emerged  from  the 
well  and  unseen  of  them,  went  up  the  wide  chimney.  He 
never  trusted  any  one  more  than  he  could  help,  this  M. 
van  Bosch. 

For  he  was  in  fact  Jerry  Wild.  The  Jerry  Wild  who 
sent  Nelson  news  of  Villeneuve's  fleet,  who  planned 
Cadoudal's  plot,  and  saved  himself  from  the  ruin  of  it. 
He  was,  I  suppose,  as  great  a  spy  as  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  Some  call  him  an  assassin,  too.  But  that  I  doubt 
— for  reasons. 

So  Jerry  Wild  went  up  the  kitchen  chimney  where 
the  bacon  hung  for  smoking,  and  Paul  Desaignes  and 
his  sister  stared  out  anxiously  through  the  dark.  Sud- 
denly they  saw  the  hedges  move.  Every  twig  was  alive 
with  men.  Then  Marie  remembered  the  words  of  her 
M.  van  Bosch,  and  in  a  panic  of  blind  fear  rushed  at  the 
table  and  began  to  clear  the  supper  plates  away.  While 
she  clattered  the  things  clumsily  in  her  haste  came  a 
loud  knock. 

Her  brother  unbarred  the  door.  It  was  instantly 
flung  wide  in  his  face.  Colonel  Savary,  of  the  military 
police,  strode  in  with  a  sergeant's  guard  of  his  men,  and 
M.  Fouche  was  with  them,  and  with  Fouche  was  Mehee 
de  la  Touche,  the  chief  of  his  spies,  the  man  of  the  flaccid 


362  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

cheeks  like  skim  milk.     "That  is  the  farmer — that — 
said  Mehee,  and  Savary  gripped  Paul  Desaignes.     Marie 
stood  at  gaze,  white-faced. 

"Rascal,"  said  Fouche,  "where  is  your  guest?" 

"My  guest?"  Paul  stammered. 

"Do  not  waste  my  time,"  Savary  growled.  "We  know 
he  is  here.  Now,  where  is  he  ?" 

"He — he  went  out.     After  dinner,"  said  Paul. 

"That  is  a  lie,"  said  Mehee  in  his  pleasant  silky  voice. 

Savary  thrust  Paul  into  the  arms  of  one  of  his  men. 
"Guard  him,  you,  Brigue;  Frene,  hold  the  girl.  Search 
the  house." 

His  men  came  clattering  in  with  their  lanterns  and  set 
to  work,  thrusting  into  every  corner.  Soon  the  neat 
farmhouse  was  chaos.  From  every  room  came  a  hideous 
din  of  wanton  destruction.  They  raked  in  cupboard 
and  chest,  and  the  floor  was  strewn  with  broken  china 
and  battered  pewter  and  tumbled  linen.  "Oh,  sir, 
need  they?  Need  they?"  Marie  wailed  in  agony  for 
her  home. 

"Tell  me  where  the  villain  is,"  growled  Savary. 

"Indeed,  sir,  he  went  out,"  Marie  protested. 

Savary  swore  at  her  and  swore  at  his  men,  and  dili- 
gently they  searched ;  but  they  did  not  go  up  the  chimney, 
and  they  did  not  find  Jerry  Wild. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  there  was  a  sound  of  horsemen, 
then  a  murmur,  and  in  came  Berthier  and  Jean  Dortan, 
and  behind  them,  close  buttoned  in  a  grey  coat,  Bonaparte. 
One  glance  of  the  steel  eyes  saw  all,  and  Paul  Desaignes 
cowered  before  him.  But  Marie  was  looking  at  Jean 
Dortan  in  wonder,  in  horror. 

The  great  brow  lowered  down:  "Fouche!  Imbecile!" 
his  voice  rang.  "Must  you  always  be  blundering?" 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          363 

Fouche  came  forward  with  hesitation.  He  found  it 
difficult  to  look  in  Bonaparte's  eyes.  But,  "I  protest, 
sir — I  protest,  Your  Excellency,"  said  he  in  a  hurry, 
"I  protest  the  villain  was  here  after  we  had  a  cordon 
round  the  house." 

"Fool!  You  still  have  those  who  know  where  he  is 
gone."  Bonaparte  turned  on  Paul  Desaignes.  "Now, 
my  friend,  you  have  been  harbouring  an  assassin.  I 
wish  to  believe  that  you  did  not  know  it.  This  M.  van 
Bosch  of  yours  is  an  accursed  English  spy  who  has  tried 
to  murder  me.  Prove  me  your  ignorance  of  his  designs 
by  telling  me  where  he  is  hiding." 

Paul  Desaignes  might  be  afraid  of  those  steel  eyes, 
but  he  was  a  stolid  Picardy  peasant,  stubbornly  faithful 
to  his  friends.  "I  do  not  believe  he  is  a  murderer," 
said  he.  "He  has  eaten  my  bread,  Your  Excellency. 
Also,  he  went  away  after  dinner." 

"That  is  a  lie,"  said  Mehee  de  la  Touche  in  his  silky 
voice. 

"Rascal!"  cried  Bonaparte,  and  from  beneath  the  dark 
brow  grey  flame  leapt  out  at  Paul  Desaignes;  "Rascal! 
do  you  dare  lie  to  me?  The  villain  is  seeking  my 
life;  he  is  an  assassin,  a  viper.  Tell  me  where  you  have 
hidden  him?" 

"I  tell  you  he  went  away  after  dinner.  You  have 
made  a  mistake.  It  is  a  good  fellow  who  has  eaten  my 
bread,  and  would  not  murder  any  one." 

"Those  who  hide  murderers  are  punished  like  mur- 
derers. A  hanging  awaits  you,  rascal,  unless  I  hear 
truth.  Bah,  Savary,  a  rope!  Will  those  hooks  in 
the  rafters  bear  a  man?"  And  while  Savary's  men 
bustled  for  the  hanging  his  eyes  smote  at  Paul  Desaignes. 
But  he  had  made  a  mistake.  The  sturdy  man  of  the 


364  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

soil  was  of  those  whom  the  fear  of  death  hardens  into 
adamant.  What  he  would  not  give  for  kindness  he 
would  not  give  for  fear. 

Bonaparte  turned  from  him  with  some  mutter  of 
disgust,  and  took  a  step  to  Marie  "You,  woman! 
You  must  know  where  ihe  beast  is  lurking.  Tell  me!" 

The  girl — her  face  was  pallid — trembled  and  shuddered, 
but  she  did  not  speak.  She  was  looking,  not  at  Bonaparte, 
but  at  Jean  Dortan — Jean  Dortan  who  did  nothing, 
whose  set  face  told  her  no  comfort  nor  help.  He  was  not 
good  at  expression,  this  Jean  Dortan. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  your  brother  hanged,  then?" 
Bonaparte  thundered.  "Come,  Savary,  make  short!" 

Savary  gave  a  sign.  Roughly  his  men  seized  Paul 
Desaignes  and  bound  him.  A  rope  was  rove  about  his 
neck.  They  lifted  their  lanterns  on  high  that  the  girl 
might  see  him  well. 

Bonaparte  made  a  gesture  at  him.  "A  pretty  picture 
for  a  sister!"  said  he,  and  his  eyes  were  cruel  as  a  wintry 
sea. 

Marie  was  noi  looking  at  them.  Marie  was  not  look- 
ing at  her  brother  either.  Silent,  her  agony  cried  to 
Jean  Dortan. 

Jean  Dortan  shrugged.  "One  must  speak,  in  fact," 
said  he. 

Then  her  brother  even  with  death  closing  about  him, 
cried,  "Marie,  it  is  our  guest.  He  has  eaten  our 
bread." 

Jean  Dortan  shrugged  again.  "One  must  speak  even 
so,"  said  he.  He  was  entirely  calm.  He  alone  in  all 
that  company  of  tortures  and  tortured  had  the  power 
of  sane  manhood,  and  beside  him  all  the:  fierce,  tyrant 
force  of  Bonaparte  seemed  curiously  little., 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          365 

Marie  gave  a  sob  of  anguish,  of  relief.  "I  will  speak. 
Yes,  I  will!"  she  cried.  "He  went  down  the  well." 

Her  brother  broke  out  in  some  wild  abuse. 

Bonaparte  laughed,  and  gave  her  cheek  a  fillip.  "Wo- 
men have  their  use,  eh,  Jean?  We  understand  them, 
you  and  I. " 

Jean  Dortan  considered  Bonaparte  with  grave  eyes. 

The  girl  gasped  and  sobbed  and  wept. 

Savary's  men  were  away  to  the  kitchen,  had  the  trap- 
door up  and  let  a  lantern  down  the  well.  It  will  not 
surprise  you  that  they  saw  nothing  but  water  and  a  pipe 
and  a  grey  circumference  of  chalk.  They  were  not  pleased. 
Least  pleased  of  all  was  the  man  whom  they  lowered 
down  in  a  bight  of  rope  to  sound  the  water  and  see  if  Jerry 
Wild  had  drowned  himself.  Jerry  Wild,  as  you  know, 
had  done  nothing  so  enterprising.  They  came  back 
to  tell  Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte  turned  on  Marie,  his  face  dark  with  rage, 
and  roared  a  volley  of  vile  words  at  her. 

"Humph!     This  is  dignity,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

But  the  girl,  lost  in  amazement  that  M.  van  Bosch 
could  so  vanish  utterly,  had  heard  little. 

Bonaparte  stormed  on.  "You  are  traitors  both — 
murderers— assassins.  But  you  shall  suffer.  I  swear  it, 
you  shall  suffer.  I  will  hang  you  both,  him  here 
above  your  eyes  and  you  before  he  is  too  near  death  to 
feel  your  torture.  Come  then,  Savary,  a  rope  more!" 

Jean  Dortan,  who  was  still  calm,  came  forward  one  pace. 
"One does  in  a  corner  what  one  wants  to  hide,"  said  he. 

Bonaparte  turned  on  him.  "Hide?  I  will  have  all 
France  know.  I  will  have  all  the  world  know.  Yes!  All 
men  shall  see  how  Bonaparte  takes  vengeance  on  assas- 
sins." 


366  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"All  men  will  think  you  are  ashamed  to  take  your 
vengeance  in  the  open,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

"Then  in  the  light  they  shall  die!"  cried  Bonaparte. 
"In  the  morning  before  all  the  army.  Yes,  by  my  star! 
All  the  world  shall  see  how  Bonaparte  deals  with  his  foes. 
Savary,  have  them  in  guard.  Let  them  spend  the  night 
together.  They  will  enjoy  themselves,  talking  of  their 
deaths.  Ah,  my  friends,  they  say  hanging  hurts  a  little. 
You  will  find  out.  Yes;  I  think  you  will  have  a  happy 
night  together.  Away!"  Savary's  men  swept  them 
roughly  out.  Jean  Dortan  took  two  paces  after  them 
and  stood  in  the  doorway  watching.  .  .  .  Bonaparte 
was  abusing  M.  Fouche.  "You  are  a  blunderer!  A 
ninny!  An  imbecile!  Is  it  to  make  me  farces  like  this 
that  you  are  paid  ?  Look  to  it,  M.  Fouche — scour  the 
countryside  at  dawn  and  find  me  this  fellow.  Find  him, 
do  you  hear?  Or  I  shall  find  myself  another  minister, 
M.  Fouche."  He  strode  to  the  door.  "Big  Jean," 
said  he,  "ah,  my  big  Jean,  that  is  a  cool  square  head 
of  yours,"  and  he  pinched  Jean  Dortan's  ear.  At  the 
touch  of  him  Jean  Dortan  started  away.  "Come  then, 
ride,"  said  Bonaparte,  and  he  mounted,  and  between 
the  sturdy  strength  of  Berthier  and  Jean  Dortan  rode 
back  to  camp.  But  he  was  not  at  ease.  Till  they  were 
within  the  line  of  sentries  he  had  a  glance  for  every  bush, 
for  every  shadow.  The  unforeseen,  the  unforeseeable, 
haunted  him.  .  .  . 

It  is  not  of  him  that  I  think  on  that  ride  through  the 
night,  but  of  Jean  Dortan — Jean  Dortan  with  his  sane 
manly  wit  hammering  out  his  problem  of  life  and 
love.  .  .  . 

They  came  to  Bonaparte's  tent  and  he  dismounted 
wearily,  and  with  a  "Good-night,  my  friends,"  went  in. 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          367 

But  Jean  Dortan  came  after  him.  "I  shall  not  want 
you,  Jean,"  he  said,  "I  am  for  bed."  But  Jean  Dor- 
tan  sat  on  his  bed.  Bonaparte  patted  the  big  shoul- 
der. "Till  the  morning,  Jean.  This  affair  has  tried 
me." 

"This  affair  is  all  wrong,"  said  Jean  Dortan.  "You 
are  making  a  beast  of  yourself,  my  captain." 

Bonaparte  drew  back.  The  grey  eyes  began  to  gleam. 
"Jean  Dortan,  my  friend,  it  is  not  well  to  interfere  with 
me." 

"Since  I  always  help,  I  may  interfere  sometimes. 
Well,  you  are  all  wrong.  You  must  not  kill  these  people. 
They  are  good  people,  I  answer  for  them — I,  Jean  Dortan, 
whom  you  know  for  your  friend." 

Bonaparte  flung  an  oath  at  him.  "Am  I  to  have 
assassins  all  about  me  and  not  crush  them?" 

"They  are  no  more  assassins  than  the  wheat  they  grow. 
You  are  credulous  and  timid  as  a  priest.  The  man  who 
was  with  them  may  be  anything  (if  M.  Fouche  says  he 
is  an  assassin,  it  is  very  likely  he  is  something  else),  but 
they  only  knew  him  as  an  honest  trader.  They  are  as 
guilty  against  you  as  I  am." 

Bonaparte  stamped  up  and  down.  "I  tell  you  I 
would  not  pardon  them  for  my  mother  herself.  What! 
Shall  I  let  every  peasant  cherish  an  assassin  ?  Am  I 
to  be  beaten  to  death  like  vermin  ?  I  will  put  fear  abroad . 
The  gallows  of  these  two  shall  teach  France.  What 
are  two  scurvy  peasant  lives  to  my  ease?  Bah,  if  you 
cared  for  me  at  all  you  would  not  ask  for  them.  But 
you  are  like  all  the  rest.  It  is  self  with  you  all.  You 
care  for  nothing  else.  Self — self — self!  Ah,  bah,  can 
you  not  think  of  me  for  a  moment?  You  who  believe 
in  friends  and  love  and  the  rest.  No;  all  that  is  words. 


368  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

I  put  my  hand  on  a  plaything  of  yours,  I  cross  your 
lust  and  you  are  against  me  like  all  the  rest.  Even  you, 
Jean  Dortan,  who  boast  your  friendship.  And  I  wished 
to  trust  you,  Jean.  .  .  .  But  no!  It  is  destiny.  I  shall 
never  find  one  who  is  faithful  to  me.  I  am  alone." 

"You  have  had  ten  years  of  my  life, "  said  Jean  Dortan. 
"If  I  have  served  you,  you  best  know.  I  have  asked  you 
for  nothing  till  now.  Now  I  ask  you  for  the  lives  of  a 
man  and  a  woman  who  have  done  you  no  wrong. " 

"Away  with  you!  away!"  cried  Bonaparte.  "It  is  an 
infamy  to  ask  it.  Shall  I  give  you  my  blood,  my  life?" 

"You  understand,  my  captain?  This  is  good-bye," 
said  Jean  Dortan,  looking  into  his  eyes. 

"Go,  then!"  cried  Bonaparte.  "I  have  no  use  for 
one  who  sets  a  woman  before  me.  Fool,  go!" 

And  Jean  Dortan  went  out. 

Bonaparte  stood  looking  across  the  calm  of  the  night 
and  the  cool  night  wind.  The  blue  dome  of  the  sky  was 
fretted  with  tiny  grey  clouds  that  moved  between  him 
and  the  white  light  of  the  stars.  Save  for  the  tramp  of 
the  sentries  his  teeming  camp  was  still.  He  stood  alone, 
the  guarded  master  of  all,  scorning  all  mankind.  With 
a  shrug  he  turned  from  the  fresh  darkness,  let  fall  the 
flaps  of  his  tent,  flung  off  his  clothes,  and  lay  down.  He 
bade  himself  sleep,  and  in  a  moment  was  sleeping  soundly 
as  a  child. 

Along  the  turf  outside,  in  the  black  gloom  beside  the 
tent,  was  the  faintest  rustle.  A  gentleman  who  had  ad- 
mired Bonaparte  was  progressing  upon  his  belly.  He 
listened  with  his  ear  to  the  canvas,  raised  it  an  inch, 
and  by  the  lantern  light  saw  Bonaparte  sleeping  safe. 
He  slid  in  beneath  the  flaps  and  then  arose.  He  was 
Jerry  Wild. 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          369 

Jerry  Wild  is  one  of  my  country's  great  men,  and 
to  him  we  all  owe  much.  His  natural  modesty  has  pre- 
vented history  from  devoting  to  him  his  due  of  eloquence. 
But  he  would  make  the  fortune  of  a  historian  of  the 
heroic  school.  In  particular,  his  achievements  of  this 
night  sparkle  set  in  a  careful  narrative. 

Go  back  to  the  farmhouse  chimney.  There  was  a 
cautious  if  sooty  head  rose  of  it.  Just  that  inch  or  two 
which  sufficed  for  the  eyes  to  look  all  round.  He  saw 
the  cordon  still  about  the  farmhouse,  and  men  prodding 
into  the  ricks  and  diving  into  byre  and  hen-roost.  It  was 
not  yet  time  for  him  to  go.  He  remained  comfortably 
wedged  in  his  chimney.  Up  it  came,  all  the  din  of  the 
search.  Then  Bonaparte's  bronze  voice.  He  heard 
Paul  and  Marie  doomed  to  death  for  his  sake.  "The 
Corsican,"  he  muttered,  "never  was  a  gentleman." 
A  gentleman  Jerry  Wild  considered  himself,  and  I  con- 
fess I'll  not  deny  him  the  name.  But  he  saw  no  need  to 
come  down  that  chimney.  He  watched  Savary's  men  driv- 
ing Paul  and  Marie  away  to  death.  He  saw  the  cordon 
withdrawn  and  the  men  march  back  to  camp.  He  let 
them  get  well  out  of  hearing  before  he  came  out  of  his 
chimney  and  on  to  the  thatch,  and  with  no  gratuitous 
noise,  to  the  ground.  Then  he  made  a  right  line  for  the 
shore. 

From  the  seaward  face  of  the  down  he  saw  the  mast- 
head lights  of  the  watching  English  frigates.  He  made  for 
a  square  clump  of  juniper  bushes  and  plunged  into  them. 
You  see  him  busy  there  with  a  tinder  box.  Soon  he  had 
a  big  lantern  alight,  raised  it  head  high,  lowered  it,  raised 
it  again,  and  then  put  it  out.  Two  red  lights  one  above 
the  other  showed  in  a  frigate's  mizzen  rigging.  Jerry 
Wild  turned  on  the  instant  and  began  to  run. 


370  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

He  was  bred  in  North  Devon.  He  could  run  all  day, 
if  need  were.  He  had  still  abundant  breath  when  it  was 
necessary  to  check  and  go  warily.  He  wormed  his  way 
through  the  sentries.  He  came  through  the  sleeping  camp 
with  the  ghost-step  of  his  trade,  fell  to  hands  and  knees 
when  he  saw  the  silver  eagle  by  Bonaparte's  tent. 
He  finished  the  last  yards  on  his  belly  in  time  to  see  Bona- 
parte looking  out  at  the  night.  Then  he  lay  still,  waiting 
till  it  should  please  Bonaparte  to  go  to  sleep.  He  says 
he  nearly  went  asleep  too.  I  doubt  that. 

Now  you  have  him  in  the  tent.  All  dappled  with  soot 
and  grey  chalk  dust  he  made  a  weird  figure  as  he  stood 
erect,  scanning  everything — the  secretaire  with  its  rough 
litter  of  papers,  the  holsters  and  sword  on  the  tent-pole 
below  the  lantern,  Bonaparte's  face,  still  and  calm  like  a 
cameo  in  old  ivory  against  the  white  pillow.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  breast  and  loosened  a  sheath-knife  of  a  foot 
long.  He  glanced  again  at  Bonaparte.  Then  with  a  swift 
silent  movement  he  came  to  the  secretaire.  He  was 
careful  of  the  papers  in  his  dirty  hands,  but  his  eyes  were 
busy.  Surely  never  a  spy  found  richer  treasure  than 
those  plans  for  the  blow  at  England.  The  orders  for 
Gantheaume  and  Missiessy  and  Villeneuve,  all  were 
there  in  the  rough.  Jerry  Wild  read  them  with  the  eyes 
of  experience  and  put  them  away  in  that  wonderful 
memory  of  his.  And  then  he  turned,  smiling  through 
his  soot,  to  Bonaparte.  Silently  he  came  to  the  bedside 
and  drew  out  his  knife. . . . 

He  considered  the  sleeper  a  moment  more He 

put  a  dirty  hand  on  Bonaparte's  silk  shirt  and  shook 
him.  Bonaparte  began  to  murmur  sleepily.  "Jean,  big 
Jean — my  friend — let  me  sleep  a  while  yet,  I  beg 
you." 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          371 

Jerry  Wild  continued  to  grin  and  to  shake.  "If  you  cry 
out,  you  will  force  me  to  kill  you,"  said  Jerry  Wild  suavely. 
Bonaparte  opened  his  eyes  and  sat  up  with  a  start. 
"Awake  to  this,  Your  Excellency;  if  you  cry  out,  kill 
you  I  certainly  shall." 

Bonaparte,  sitting  up  in  bed,  dull-eyed,  pallid,  with  wild 
hair,  saw  the  sooty  smiling  face,  and  gaped,  and  felt  the 
knife  prick  at  his  breast.  He  did  not  cry  out. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  kill  you,"  Jerry  Wild  continued 
suavely.  "If  I  did,  I  should  not  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  wake  you.  In  fact,  I  am  here  to  assure  Your 
Excellency  that  I  never  had  any  intention  of  killing  you. 
But  if  you  do  not  listen  to  me  quietly,  kill  you  I  nmst — 
to  my  infinite  regret." 

Bonaparte,  a  naked  man  with  a  knife  on  his  breast,  was 
wise  enough  to  do  nothing.  "I  wait  on  you,  M.  Black- 
face," said  he  gravely. 

"Your  Excellency  must  understand  that  in  coming 
here  I  trust  myself  wholly  to  your  honour,"  said  Jerry 
Wild. 

"Your  trust,"  said  Bonaparte,  regarding  the  knife,  "is 
most  touching." 

"Your  Excellency  is  deceived  by  appearances.  Permit 
me  to  present  myself:  I  am  Jerry  Wild.  Now,  Your  Ex- 
cellency has  been  misled  by  the  vain  delusion  that  I  wish 
to  murder  you.  So  far  misled  that  you  propose  to  hang 
two  very  worthy  and  wholesome  fools,  your  subjects, 
for  having  sheltered  me.  I  do  hope  that  my  conduct  of 
the  last  few  minutes  has  convinced  you  that  I  am  no 
murderer." 

"Rascal!"    cried    Bonaparte.     "You— 
Jerry  Wild  went  on  in  a  hurry:    "Your  Excellency 
is  prejudiced.     Also   it  will   injure  your  health  if  you 


372  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

talk  loud.  Now  consider.  If  I  were  a  murderer  I 
might  have  stabbed  you  in  your  sleep  and  retired  as 
safely  as  I  came.  Even  now  I  could  have  my  knife 
in  your  heart  before  a  cry  got  beyond  the  tent;  but  I 
should  deplore  such  a  conclusion  almost  as  much  as 
you.  All  that  is  necessary  to  your  salvation  is  that  those 
two  worthy  and  wholesome  fools  should  be  set  free.  My 
honour " 

"Your  honour!"  Bonaparte  sneered. 

"Well,"  said  Jerry  Wild  coolly,  "I  at  least  am  show- 
ing that  I  have  some.  Consider;  I  was  safe  out  of  your 
grip.  I  came  back  for  nothing  but  to  save  these  inno- 
cents. I  have  had  your  life  in  my  hand,  and  proved 
to  you  that  I  am  no  murderer.  I  am  only  a  spy.  They 
were  too  simple  to  think  me  less  than  an  honest  man. 
Give  them  their  foolish  lives,  then.  As  for  me,  I  con- 
fess a  spy's  life  is  fairly  forfeit;  but  since  I  have  spared 
yours  you  may  well  spare  mine.  Promise  me  on 
your  honour,  the  lives  of  the  three  of  us,  and  I  drop  my 
knife.  I  have  come  back  out  of  safety  to  trust  my  life 
to  your  honour.  If  a  spy  can  trust  you,  you  should  be 
able  to  keep  faith  with  a  spy." 

"It  is  a  fair  offer,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

Jerry  Wild  started  at  the  new  voice.  His  hand  wavered 
a  moment,  and  Bonaparte,  dashing  the  knife  aside,  hurled 
him  out  of  bed  and  sprang  behind  Jean  Dortan 's  mas- 
sive strength.  "You  are  a  propos,  my  big  Jean,"  said 
he,  and  laughed,  keeping  the  while  a  wary  eye  on  Jerry 
Wild — Jerry  Wild,  who  balanced  himself  on  the  balls 
of  his  feet  ready  to  spring. 

Jean  Dortan  encircled  Bonaparte  with  one  big  arm. 
"You'll  not  give  him  his  terms,  then,  my  captain?"  he 
inquired. 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          373 

"A  dog  of  a  spy?"  cried  Bonaparte.     "I'll  give  him 

Into  his  rugged  mouth  was  thrust  a  lump  of  wood,  pear- 
shaped,  an  efficient  gag.  A  noose  was  flung  over  him  and 
drawn  till  it  bit  into  his  arms.  Helpless  and  speechless, 
his  eyes  flaming  venom,  he  was  put  down  upon  his  bed. 

"  The  deuce  and  all ! "  said  Jerry  Wild  in  English.  And 
"What's  all  this?"  in  French. 

"  He  has  had  his  chance  to  be  honest,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 
"Now  he  has  just  one  chance  to  live."  Jean  Dortan's 
heavy  stolid  strength  was  athrob  with  life,  his  honest  dark 
eyes  lit  with  a  new  fire.  And  Bonaparte  lay  before  him,  a 
distorted  form,  ghastly  in  the  misery  of  impotent  hate. 

The  previous  proceedings  of  Jean  Dortan,  which  were 
simply  practical  as  his  own  nature,  demand  a  word. 
When  Bonaparte  bade  him  begone  he  went  slowly  to 
the  little  tent  a  Vabri  beside  Bonaparte's,  where  he  was 
wont  to  sleep.  Sitting  just  inside  it,  cross-legged,  he 
watched  the  lights  die,  and  felt  sleep  capture  the  camp. 
A  while  he  gazed  at  the  clean  starlight.  Then  he  took 
up  his  tent-peg  mallet  and  with  swift  strong  fingers  whit- 
tled the  head  of  it  into  the  likeness  of  a  pear.  From  a 
coil  of  picket  rope  he  made  a  running  noose.  Thus 
armed  he  went  back  to  Bonaparte's  tent,  nodding  to 
the  nodding  sentry  as  he  passed.  He  was  almost  in 
before  he  caught  the  sound  of  Jerry  Wild's  gentle  voice 
and  checked.  It  surprised  him,  of  course,  but  it  pleased 
him  too.  There  was  one  more  decent  man  in  the  world 
than  he  had  supposed.  Also,  Bonaparte  was  to  have 
one  chance  more. 

Bonaparte  refused  it,  and  Jean  Dortan  had  no  mercy. 
Jean  Dortan  knelt  above  him  with  a  broad  knife  at  his 
throat,  and  Bonaparte,  his  lean  fine-cut  face  torn  into 


374  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

strange  lines  by  that  rough  gag,  looked  up  into  Jean 
Dortan's  eyes.  He  saw  something  unlike  the  cool  cal- 
culated daring  of  Jerry  Wild.  Cruelty  flashed  fierce 
in  the  ruthless  passion  of  a  kindly  man  fighting  for  a 
woman.  He  felt  a  force  that  mastered  the  stark  warrior 
force  of  his  own  soul.  It  gripped  him,  an  impotent 
victim.  It  dazed  him.  .  .  . 

"I  swear  by  God  I  will  cut  your  throat  unless  you  do 
what  I  bid." 

The  words  woke  him.  A  medley  of  thought  and  passion 
began  to  throb  in  his  brain.  .  .  .  He  saw  himself  nothing 
and  all  his  plans  a  ruin.  .  .  .  That  the  force  to  beat  him 
down  should  be  Jean  Dortan,  the  one  man  who  had  been 
his  soul's  friend — that  set  him  in  an  agony  of  rage  with  the 
world.  .  .  .  The  world  was  a  devil's,  and  in  a  devil's  like- 
ness. .  .  . 

His  bonds  were  jerked  till  from  the  elbow  his  arms  were 
free.  He  was  banked  up  against  a  pillow.  Pen  and  paper 
were  put  in  his  hands. 

"Write  what  I  bid  you." 

Bonaparte,  impotent  under  the  knife  stared  at  the 
paper's  grim  mockery. 

FRENCH  REPUBLIC. 
LIBERTY.  EQUALITY. 

BONAPARTE,  First  Consul. 

"Write!"  growled  Jean  Dortan.  "The  place— the 
date— 'To  the  Provost  Marshal'— write!" 

Bonaparte  looked  up  into  Jean  Dortan's  eyes.  He  saw 
no  weakness  there. 

"Write!"  growled  Jean  Dortan,  and  pressed  the  blade 
against  Bonaparte's  throat  so  that  it  seared  the  skin. 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          375 

Bonaparte  bent  his  head  naively,  like  a  child,  to  shut  out 
the  pain.  Jean  Dortan  gripped  his  brow  and  forced  the 
head  up.  Bonaparte  saw  those  ruthless  eyes  again,  and 
at  their  challenge  the  warrior  force  of  him  was  roused. 
This  fight  was  not  lost  yet,  and  to  the  end  it  should  be 
fought. 

He  began  to  write,  slowly,  painfully: 

FRENCH  REPUBLIC. 
LIBERTY.  EQUALITY. 

BONAPARTE,  First  Consul. 

Headquarters:  Biauville,  16th  Prairial.  In  the  10th 
year  of  the  French  Republic  one  and  indivisible. 

To  the  PROVOST  MARSHAL — 

Give  Paul  Desaignes  and  Marie  Desaignes,  the  man 
and  woman  arrested  this  night,  to  the  care  of  the 
bearer,  Jean  Dortan :  and  this  shall  be  your  discharge 
for  them. 

BONAPARTE. 

Such  was  the  paper  Jean  Dortan  gripped  in  triumph. 
He  put  up  his  knife,  he  stared  into  Bonaparte's  eyes, 
looked  long,  and  the  two  men's  souls  spoke  together.  .  .  . 
"You  would  have  it  so,  you  see,"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

On  Bonaparte's  pale  brow  beads  of  sweat  hung  heavy. 
.  .  .  But  his  eyes  were  set  and  cold. 

Jean  Dortan  swung  away  and  gripped  Jerry  Wild's 
arm.  "Come!  Come  away!"  he  growled. 

Jerry  Wild,  who  was  a  person  of  more  experience, 
lingered  to  bind  Bonaparte  to  his  camp  bed.  Then  he 
took  Jean  Dorian's  arm  and  together  they  went  out,  con- 
querors of  the  world  conqueror. 


376  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

"What,  M.  Jean!"  the  sentry  cried,  as  they  passed  Mm 
in  the  starlight.  "Who  is  your  black  friend  ?" 

"One  of  the  Little  Corporal's  devils,"  said  Jean  Dortan 
cheerily.  "Are  you  not,  my  friend?" 

"By  the  blue!"  said  Jerry  Wild.  "Come,  let's  ha' 
done.  Faith,  it's  a  dog's  life  serving  your  Little  Corporal, 
Jean."  So  they  were  gone  away  to  the  camp's  prison. 

Within  the  tent  Bonaparte  rocked  to  and  fro  in  his 
bonds,  straining  fiercely,  scoring  his  flesh.  With  nerves 
raw  in  every  limb,  still  he  strove  on  till  the  light  bed  frame 
began  to  sway  under  him  and  he  brought  it  over  with  a 
crash.  He  was  beneath  it  bruised  and  bleeding,  but  he 
writhed  desperately  and  jerked  it  against  the  tent  pole 
with  a  rattling  din. 

The  sentry  heard  it  all  and,  after  a  moment's  fearful 
hesitation,  plunged  in.  Then  he  doubted  his  eyes.  His 
general,  his  almighty  general,  grovelling,  gagged,  and 
bound,  with  his  bedstead  on  his  back!  He  had  to  wake 
from  stupefaction  before  he  darted  forward  and  slashed 
the  bonds  with  his  bayonet  and  wrenched  out  the 

gag- 

"Fool!   Imbecile!"   so   he  was   thanked.     "Accursed 

rogue!  Idiot!  Turn  out  the  guard!  Away  to  Berthier! 
Rouse  the  3rd  Chasseurs  a  cheval." 

Out  ran  the  sentry,  thoroughly  scared,  and  fired  his 
musket  as  he  ran.  On  the  sound  the  camp  rustled  to 
life. 

As  Jerry  Wild  went  down  the  hill  with  Jean  Dortan, 
"And  when  you  have  the  dears  out  of  prison,  what  then  ?" 
said  he. 

"I  shall  find  a  boat  at  Wimereux,"  said  Jean  Dor- 
tan. 

"If  ever  we  get  as  far  as  Wimereux,"  said  Jerry  Wild. 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          377 

Jerry  Wild,  in  fact,  was  pensive;  a  state  to  which  stirring 
events  often  reduced  that  great  mind. 

They  came  to  the  camp  prison — it  had  been  a  barn  the 
summer  before — and,  Jerry  Wild  remaining  in  a  modest 
obscurity,  turned  out  a  yawning  officer  of  the  guard.  He 
was  presented  with  the  order.  His  sleepy  eyes  having 
contrived  to  read  it,  he  went  off  for  the  Provost  Mar- 
shal. 

The  Provost  Marshal  on  arrival  showed  a  sleepy  curios- 
ity. 

"I  dare  say  it's  right  for  you  to  keep  the  First  Consul 
waiting,"  said  Jean  Dortan;  "but  I  should  not  like  to — 
just  now." 

The  Provost  Marshal  gave  orders  with  alacrity  for  the 
prisoners  to  be  brought.  Also  for  a  bottle  of  cognac. 
"Now,  between  ourselves,  my  dear  Dortan,"  said  he,  filling 
the  glasses,  "what  is  the  Little  Man  going  to  do  with 
them?" 

"Didn't  he  tell  you?"  said  Jean  Dortan. 

The  Provost  Marshal  examined  the  order  again.  "No. 
That's  what  is  strange." 

"Perhaps  he  did  not  want  you  to  know,"  said  Jean 
Dortan  innocently. 

The  Provost  Marshal  looked  hard  at  Jean  Dor- 
tan.  Then  without  a  word  gave  him  his  glass  of  cog- 
nac. 

Marie  and  her  brother  were  led  into  the  room.  Marie 
saw  Jean  Dortan,  and  her  drawn  white  face  flamed  crim- 
son; she  grasped  at  her  bosom. 

"Will  you  have  a  guard  ?"  the  Provost  Marshal  asked. 
"I'll  manage  them,"  said  Jean  Dortan,  throwing  back 
his  broad  shoulders,  "I  and  my  friend.  Come,  my 
children — en  route,  march!"  He  thrust  them  out  before 


378  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

him  into  the  night.  He  gripped  Marie's  arm,  Jerry  Wild 
Paul's,  and  dragged  them  on. 

The  Provost  Marshal  beckoned  to  one  of  his  men. 
"Just  see  what  he  does,  Pierre,"  said  he. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  prison,  "Jean!"  Marie 
gasped,  "Jean!  Is  it  real?  Is  it  true?" 

Jean  wheeled  sharply  to  the  left,  to  northward.  "True 
as  the  starlight!  True  as  the  air!  True  as  the  morn- 

ing!" 

"Ah,  the  morning!"  she  gave  a  strange  sobbing 
laugh.  "The  morning — now!"  and  she  hung  heavy  on 
his  arm. 

He  bore  her  on,  swiftly,  swiftly.  .  .  . 

Paul  Desaignes  was  stammering  out  a  host  of  muddled 
questions  to  Jerry  Wild,  who  did  not  listen.  He  had 
his  head  half  turned.  "We  are  being  followed,"  said 
he  in  a  whisper.  "Ah,  it  is  only  one  man."  And  then 
the  crack  of  a  musket-shot  came  rolling  down  the  wind. 
Two  minutes  after  a  bugle  cried  reveille. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  muttered  Jean  Dortan. 

"It  means,"  said  Jerry  Wild,  "that  your  Corsican  is  an 
energetic  man  and  we  shall  never  get  to  Wimereux.  Alter 
course."  He  wheeled  the  party  round  to  seaward.  "For 
a  two-mile  run.  There'll  be  a  boat  for  you  if  you  get  there 
alive."  And  he  shot  ahead  through  the  dark. 

They  were  breasting  the  down,  toiling  at  the  close  slip- 
pery turf,  when  they  heard  afar  off  the  clatter  of  the 
chasseurs  getting  to  horse,  panting  and  going  more  slowly, 
when  there  came  the  dull  boom  of  a  regiment  of  galloping 
hoofs.  Upon  the  crest  of  the  down,  hard  put  to  it  for 
breath,  they  checked  an  instant  perforce,  and  drank 
greedily  the  colder,  swifter  air.  The  lights  of  the  English 
ships,  white  and  red  and  green,  hung  like  stars  in  a  new 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          379 

firmament  close  above  the  glassy  blackness  of  the  sea. 
"On!  on!"  cried  Jerry  Wild,  pointing  the  way.  But 
he  himself  lay  down  with  his  ear  to  the  ground  a 
moment.  Clearly  and  still  more  clearly  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  horses.  The  chasseurs  were  striking  straight 
for  the  sea.  "That  Corsican  is  devilishly  like  the  devil," 
said  Jerry  Wild,  and  as  he  was  rising  the  Provost  Mar- 
shal's man  tumbled  over  him.  Jerry  Wild  stunned  the 
man  neatly  with  his  knife  hilt  and  ran  on. 

On  and  on,  over  the  crest  of  the  down  they  ran,  while 
the  boom  of  the  chasseurs  grew  to  a  thunder.  And  now 
the  black  vault  of  the  stars  was  paling  overhead  and  a 
faint  ghostly  light  touched  the  dew  on  grass  and  twig  to  a 
dull  garment  of  pearl.  Slipping,  sliding,  stumbling  over 
juniper  bush  and  the  broken  turf  of  the  burrows,  down 
hill  they  went.  A  tracery  of  white  on  the  grey  beach 
below  marked  the  verge  of  the  dark  sea. 

Jerry  Wild  checked.  With  all  the  wind  that  was  in 
him  he  whistled: 

Come,  all  you  sailors  bold, 

Lend  an  ear,  lend  an  ear! 
Come  all  you  sailors  bold,  lend  an  ear 


From  the  sea  below  rose  the  answer  clear  and  full : 

It 's  of  our  Admiral's  fame 
Brave  Benbow  call'd  by  name, 
How  he  fought  on  the  main 
You  shall  hear,  you  shall  hear. 

In  the  growing  light  they  saw  the  dark  outline  of  a 


380 


whale-boat  lying  close  in -shore.  The  chasseurs  were  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  dashing  down  reckless,  yelling,  for 
they  had  their  prey  fair  in  sight.  Marie  was  running 
feebly,  near  falling  at  every  step.  Jean  Dortan  and  her 
brother  suited  their  pace  to  hers  and  seemed  to  stand  still 
to  be  taken. 

Jerry  Wild  crashed  across  the  shingle. 

There  was  an  officer  standing  up  in  the  stern  sheets  of 
his  boat.  " Mr.  Wild  ?  "  he  cried. 

"Myself,"  said  Jerry  Wild,  splashing  into  the  sea 
and  gripping  the  stern.  "Hold  on  for  my  young 
friends." 

The  lieutenant  looked  back  at  the  chase  without  emotion. 
"Praise  God  for  all  and  a  flowing  tide,"  said  he,  and  then 
over  his  shoulder  to  the  bowmen  leaning  on  their  boat- 
hooks,  "Stand  by." 

With  the  first  of  the  horsemen  almost  upon  them  Marie 
stumbled  and  fell.  Jean  Dortan  caught  her  up  and 
plunged  on  through  the  shingle.  But  the  chasseur  was 
level  with  him  and  swaying  for  a  sword-stroke.  The 
lieutenant  rested  his  pistol  on  his  arm  and  took  a  careful 
shot.  Even  as  he  struck  the  chasseur  bent  and  tumbled 
limp  upon  his  horse's  neck.  Jean  Dortan,  staggering  on, 
flung  Marie  into  the  boat.  Paul  scrambled  in  by  the 
other  thwart.  The  lieutenant  and  Jerry  Wild  together 
hauled  Jean  aboard. 

"Give  way,"  said  the  lieutenant  placidly,  and  the 
oars  tore  the  water  and  the  boat  leapt  out  from  the 
shore. 

The  chasseurs  spurred  on  yelling  and  cursing,  till  the 
water  was  on  their  holsters.  With  the  steady  rhythm  of 
the  oars  was  borne  back  to  them  this  chanty: 


HOW  HE  CAME  TO  THE  SEA          381 

Now  farewell  to  you,  ye  fine  Spanish  ladies, 
Now  farewell  to  you,  ye  ladies  of  Spain; 

For  we've  received  orders  to  sail  for  old  England, 
And  perhaps  we  may  never  more  see  you  again. 

******* 

Bonaparte  came  to  the  sea. 

The  morning  star  was  flaming  white  and  still  above  the 
down.  The  quiet  light  of  the  fore-dawn  made  world  and 
air  and  sky  all  violet  blue. 

Bonaparte  stared  out  over  the  dark  travailing  water  to 
that  diminishing  boat  and  the  paling  lights,  the  dim  canvas 
of  the  English  ships.  The  sting  of  the  spray  was  in  his 
breath.  The  long  shore  roared  to  the  flowing  tide.  .  .  . 
Again  he  felt  the  ache  of  impotence.  The  tireless  power 
of  that  grim  dark  water  defied  him.  .  .  . 

He  was  alone.  There  was  many  and  many  a  man 
would  serve  him  faithfully — serve  him  to  the  last.  But  he 
had  no  friend  now.  The  one  man  after  whom  he  yearned 
had  flung  away  from  him  to  his  enemies.  He  was  bitterly 
alone.  .  .  .  Womanhood  called,  and  the  man  obeyed,  and 
chose  her  before  all.  .  .  .  And  they,  they  two,  had  con- 
quered. ...  Ay,  the  world  worked  for  them.  They 
were  atune  with  the  world.  .  .  .  They  scorned  what  he 
desired;  they  wanted  what  was  dust  and  ashes  to  him, 
but  the  world  spirit  approved  their  choice.  In  them, 
with  them,  for  them,  unseen  powers  throbbed  and  toiled. 
.  .  .  And  himself  ?  .  .  .  Higher  the  tide  rose  and  higher. 
Flying  foam  fretted  his  charger.  The  dark  bosom  of 
the  sea  beat  strong,  and  a  keen  dawn  wind  smote  at 
him.  ...  He  felt  indomitable  powers  against  him.  Ay, 
he  who  fought  for  himself  only,  he  was  at  war  with  all  the 


382  THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

powers  of  being.  They  mocked  his  ambition,  they 
thwarted  his  plans,  they  stood  against  him  in  marshalled 
might.  He  was  at  war  with  life.  .  .  . 

The  dawn  light  grew  strong  and  clear.  A  shaft  of  gold 
came  over  the  down  and  the  sea  awoke  in  a  myriad  jewels 
of  laughter. 


THE  END. 


•••i  umit  III  II  III  ||  HI  1 1  III  ||  If)  |  HI] 

A     000119537     9 


s 


